Don't look back
by Mona Lisa23
Summary: You are the Butcher, aren't you?" Tavington held her gaze, realizing that he had just revealed more than he probably should have. "If you judge people by what others say about them, well, yes, I am."
1. January, 17th 1781

January, 17th 1781

/tmp/uploads/FF817774.doc

"_Kill me before the war is over, will you?" Tavington said, remembering the promise Martin had made at Fort Carolina. He snorted. "It appears that you are not the better man."_

_Martin kneeling like a condemned man on an executioner's scaffold, sat perfectly still with the musket across his lap. He could feel Tavington measuring the final stroke. And knew that in a moment he would feel the flash of the blade against the side of his neck, but he made no effort to resist._

_But when he heard the blade slicing through the air, he ducked to the side with surprising speed and, in the same motion, brought the musket up and around. He buried the bayonet in Tavington's gut and pushed it through him._

_Tavington's swollen face opened wide in surprise._

"_You're right," Martin said, struggling to his feet and pulling the blade out of his own stomach with a grunt. "My sons were better men."_

_He put the tip of the bayonet against Tavington's throat and stared into his icy blue eyes. Both of them were covered in blood and dirt, weakened by their injuries. __But Martin was stronger. He plunged the blade into Tavington's windpipe and, a moment later, gave it a sharp twist. He stood there looking into the monster's eyes until the last drop of life had drained out of them._

_When he staggered away, Tavington was dead, but still on his feet. He had slumped forward on the musket, which kept him propped up. Martin left him that way because it seemed an undignified way to die, a gruesome end for a gruesome man._

_Excerpt from the novel 'The Patriot' by Stephen Molstad_

January, 17th 1781

In the early morning of January, 17th 1781 a sharp wind was driving rain clouds ahead that darkened the sky above the small farm house not far from Cowpens in a disquietingly swift manner.

The two inhabitants, however, didn't seem to be overly disturbed by the upcoming bank of clouds as they attended to their daily tasks. At this time of the year a cold and rainy day was nothing unusual.

Martha Kindly chafed her hands when she stepped out of the hen house. She cast a scowl at the restless sky. It wasn't for the bad weather in itself that she minded, it were the unpleasant effects it brought along that caused her trouble. Now that the temperatures had fallen to their lowest point of the year, she was plagued with pain. The north winds always brought a most disagreeable sharpness with them that made one freeze deep down inside. Not long ago the cold would not have affected her, but these days she had grown quite sensitive to changes in the weather.

This morning, her joints had been aching badly when she had woken up before her usual time. A look out of the window had told her quickly why. There had been no point for her to stay in bed any longer. She needed to be moving to drive away the painful stiffness. Thus, they had more or less voluntarily started their day earlier as usual.

Martha had not uttered one word of complaint, yet her companion had read her early bustle along with her grimly composed face just the right way. And even though it was an ordinary day of the week, Martha had not rejected the considerate offer to take a bath. She knew that the warmth of the water would bring relief, but being a thrifty person in general, Martha would never have asked for it herself.

Now she looked appreciatively to the direction where the extra portion of wood was chopped to heat the bathing water. She realized that in her momentary state she would never have managed this work on her own.

With a mild expression, she glanced over to her diligent benefactor. A smile rushed over her face like it was an emotion she didn't allow herself all too often. Without meaning to, Martha's gaze had lingered on the clothing rather than the person, which made her quickly sadden again. These clothes were another painful hint at her deteriorating powers. Only a couple of years ago she had stitched the breeches and the shirt for her son. It had been one of her last big needlework undertakings. She remembered well the trouble it had been just to finish it. Today, there was no thinking of tackling such a large-scale work with needle and thread. Of course, she still could mend some minor flaws or fix a button, if she cared to attend to it on one of those days when the pain in her fingers would not harass her. But even then, her visual acuity would place a limit on her work.

Martha sighed silently and told herself to take comfort in the fact that the clothes did at least render some good service to the person who was wearing them now and was pleased to see that in return they were kept in good order. She kept watching the powerful, fluid movements with which her helper chopped the wood into logs and chips. Indeed, those movements seemed to be carried out with such lightness that one was deceived into believing it might be easy work.

Without any doubt, Martha would have preferred to watch her own son chopping the wood. The memory of George brought tears to her eyes. Why did he have to go? She missed him bitterly. And still within her sorrow, Martha felt her bad conscience welling up to the surface. Everyone had to carry their burden. There was no reason why she would not bear it with dignity. She bit her lip and willed the tears away. For sure, her avid helper had suffered just as badly under the separation from George, but Martha hardly ever saw evidence of it. Martha was well aware that she ought to consider herself lucky to have found such attentive and very able support.

Observing the pile of firewood growing, Martha started to feel selfish. She knew well that it required a great deal of work to set up everything for a bath. Bringing out the tub, chopping the wood, carrying bucket upon bucket of water, boiling it, refilling it - it was all done without even the slightest insinuation of a complaint. And to make it worse, all the effort threatened to be rewarded with a cold shower from above. Suddenly she wished she had never agreed to it. Martha disliked the idea of burdening her friend.

Friendship. An introverted smile returned to her, merely showing in her eyes. That's what the two of them had developed during the recent years. Martha would have loathed to see it change into something based on compassion and obligation because of her own deficiencies. Would their friendship still be of the same quality if she could no longer contribute her share, if she took more than she could give?

If Martha's payment had been a simple 'thank you,' she could have been sure of its appreciation. But to do so would have meant to admit her own incapability. It was like she gave up a part of her independence with every favor she received. It was a new kind of gratefulness that Martha would still have to learn. It made a difference whether one expressed one's thanks out of mere politeness or whether one actually owed a person a dept of gratitude. Martha wasn't lacking in gratefulness, though. But she could not bring herself to actually show it, not yet, not as long as she refused to accept that she stood in need of support. No, she was not yet ready to yield to age. Displeased with herself she cleared her throat.

"Be sure not to dally away your time with the matchwood," Martha said somewhat harshly, in an attempt to obscure her actual strive. "It won't burn well in case it gets wet. I trust you to have noticed that there is rain on its way, haven't you?"

"Yes, Martha, I have. Of course," A calm and understanding voice responded with amazing politeness. The person who had spoken, ceased their current work and turned to Martha. Anyone who hadn't known would have been surprised to discover it was a younger woman in men's clothing who gave Martha a comforting smile now.

Helen Hoffman had learned to read Martha's occasional testiness of late and how to deal with it. It was fairly easy to tell what ailed her, especially on a day like that. What would it help to take personal offense at this passing irritability that was clearly caused by suffering? All the more as Helen was aware that she herself owed a lot to her. Helen was content that after a bath Martha's mood would lighten considerably. "Don't worry," she assured serenely, intent to dispel Martha's misgivings, "I shall be done here soon."

The last words got lost in a sudden peal of thunder that rumbled over the land, causing the grounds below their feet to quake. The two women immediately knew that their plans for the day had just been thwarted. Any crouch or placidity was instantly wiped from the women's faces, giving way to common alertness. For a helpless moment in suffocating silence Martha and Helen gaped northwards where the ominous rumbling had come from.

"My goodness," Helen said, her voice barely more than a respectful whisper. Everything about her indicated that she stood in due awe of the dark rolling noise. In fact, it awakened most unpleasant memories from the days of her youth, which she had hoped to have left back in Europe. "It would seem there's something nasty brewing." She cared to avoid using more definite terms, wondering whom of them she rather tried not to upset.

"I take it that this wasn't thunder exactly?" Martha inquired cautiously, inwardly wishing she was wrong.

"No, I'm afraid, it wasn't," Helen admitted plainly, a knowing expression in her gaze.

The clouds obviously had something in their wake that was much worse then blustery weather - war had finally been brought to their doorstep.

As if to affirm the terrible idea, a whole series of cannon blasts could be heard, pressing sickening vibrations forward to the women's hearts and stomachs. Each on her own tried to measure the distance that lay between them and the rumbling. No doubt, those unsettling detonations told clearly from a severe battle that was raging only a few miles away.

"Come. We'd best go inside the house." Martha said, trying to display as much composure as she could muster.

"What?!" Utterly perplexed Helen looked at Martha. It ailed her to see the old woman so terribly perturbed as it was a complete atypical trait of her. Admittedly, this time war had come into much closer range than ever before. And yet, Helen couldn't help but feeling reluctant to abandon their day work and go inside. It was like they yielded to the dictate of war, which they had avoided to get involved with so thoroughly until now. "They are near, " Helen stated. "But not so near that we needed to fear some cannon balls finding their way to our yard by mistake. I don't think we're in immediate danger," Helen said reassuringly, not failing, though, to tighten her grip on the axe. She felt disgusted with the sudden approach of violence and destruction of which the sinister background noise kept boding. Even though she didn't know what she might ever do against a possible attack with a simple farmer's tool, she knew for sure that she would make use of everything that was at her disposal to keep any kind of trouble at bay.

"They must be somewhere near the burnt mansion," Martha tried to locate their whereabouts like it helped her to calm down by imagining them at a definite place. It seemed to work for her as she went on in manner that was much more like her. "Men!" Disapprovingly she shook her head. "What a silly idea to fight a battle in these conditions. Are they so eager for blood that they couldn't wait for some better weather?"

Despite the basic gravity of the situation, Helen couldn't help but feeling amused with the way Martha's mind worked and had to stifle a laughter. That was the Martha she knew.

"That's no laughing matter!" Helen got sharply reprimanded at once. "Be sure to hurry and follow me back into the house", Martha ordered in resolute manner. When she saw the frown of reluctance in the younger woman's face she gave a swift shrug of her shoulders and added: "On the purpose to prepare some of your remedies, of course. When this battle is over and the men return they surely need all the help they can get. I'm afraid, though, we'll have to bring it to them as they will hardly ever ask for it."

Helen, who had turned all serious again, nodded slowly. "Alright," she voiced her consent, secretly wondering if Martha had truly found back to her practical-mindedness or if she was just a good pretender, hiding her fear behind busyness. However, her suggestion to compile medicine and bandages sounded reasonable. "I shall quickly gather up the wood and then I'll join you."

"Fine." With that, Martha Kindly could be seen heading straight towards the little hut, closing the door scrupulously behind her.

Helen mutely took notice of it, merely raising a brow. 'So much for that,' she skeptically thought to herself and wanted to finish her work as promised, when another stiff breeze blew boldly in her face and almost took her hat off. Helen swiftly grabbed for it and stared angrily back. Beneath the cold on her skin that could not bother her, she felt a chill deep down inside that had the power to make her quiver.

In a downright challenging way, chilly gusts kept teasing her. It was as if they had been sent to test her. How long would she dare to defy the most grim of all winds? Her concern for war and its outgrowths paled to insignificance in the face of another power that had again and again taken influence on Helen's life thus far.

'_Heed the north winds mighty gale, _

_lock the door and drop the sail.'_

The little rhyme rushed through her head as if wind itself had whispered it in her ear, command and warning in one. It was just a small part of an education she'd once passed through in utter secrecy. The north winds were not to be underestimated.

Helen remembered the lessons well. The north, home of the lightless night, dedicated to the dark powers – not necessarily evil by their nature, but it took some strength and practice to face the fear they could evoke. Everyone who had only just walked a few steps on this path was well advised to mind them. It would seem that Martha, who wasn't possibly acquainted to these rules and rites in any way, had understood the message. Helen considered herself advanced.

"I'm not afraid of you!" she declared through gritted teeth. Whatever was to come, she felt prepared to hold her ground.

At this very moment, an unexpected strong waft eventually took her hat and let it dance away across the yard. Helen was left standing with her now open hair, blowing wildly in the wind as first rain drops started to fall down on her.

"I am not afraid," she repeated firmly, making very clear that her near retreat was not for cowardice but for the sake of the firewood alone. Only then Helen, too, made for the sheltering warmth inside the farm house.

When she entered, Helen was prepared to receive another taste of Martha's discontent. But strangely she was spared the usual censure. No _'See? I told you so.' _in regard of her hair in disarray along with her dampened clothes would come from Martha's lips. The old woman left it at a quick yet reproachful look, as she was markedly engaged in her current doing. In fact, Helen was surprised to see how far Martha had already gotten in her endeavor to bring things together.

"You surely don't expect me to go as long as a pitched battle is ragging, do you?" Helen asked a bit warily, not sure what to make of the impressing display of Martha's avidness.

At this, the old woman let up from her action and took a deep breath. "I do not expect _you_ to go there at all." Martha declared all serious, however, she appeared somewhat hesitant to actually look at Helen as if afraid not to stand the immediate confrontation.

"Pardon?" Helen was outright alarmed now.

Martha Kindly assumed a proud attitude and resolutely turned around. "I think it should be my turn to accept this task." Martha said with frightening certainty that left no room for any objection.

For a moment, Helen stood dumbfounded, as if she refused to believe it. And even before she could throw in one word of protest, Martha gave her such a determined look, that Helen knew at once the matter was not to be discussed. The old lady had made up her mind.

Martha could see well, that Helen did not approve of the decision and was rather glad that Helen did not try to argue her out of it. She was only half as certain about it as she would let show. In an attempt to turn away from this particular subject, Martha said, "If you would be so kind and see through the medicine yourself as you know better what might come in handy."

"Sure," Helen uttered a little breathlessly, still baffled about Martha's heroic plan. But then she saw that Martha was most probably right. This was perhaps the only way to step up to war – with a caring hand. Helen felt ashamed. Once she had learned with her own eyes that war was an eerie thing of unbridled power that could evoke a never-seen brutal side of any person, who happened to stand face to face with it. She couldn't believe it that for one moment outside there she had contemplated using violence herself.

With this insight and animated by Martha's unceasing bustle, Helen soon set to work as well. With expert's eye, she saw through a various assortment of herbs, tinctures, essences, ointments. When she had made a choice, Helen cared to give detailed explanation to Martha how to correctly use them. There were so many factors one needed to take into account, when choosing the right medicine. Helen swamped Martha with instructions. And while she could observe Martha following the briefing attentively, Helen couldn't help feeling that the more information she gave, the more confused Martha got. Would she remember it all properly in case of emergency, which Helen had no doubt Martha would be confronted with only too soon?

Last but not least Helen pointed at four bottles of alcohol. "For disinfections or… just to grant a poor fellow a last sip. Whatever the circumstances may require. You will have to decide that according to the situation at hand." Helen saw Martha's uneasiness growing. The idea that all the effort might be in vain, caused the old lady to swallow hard. It was clear as daylight that Martha would quickly be all but overcharged. Helen felt she would be of much greater help if she herself would be on the scene of action. There was no way she could avoid to take the supposedly decided matter up again.

"Honestly, Martha, I really don't like the idea of letting you go there all alone."

Martha hove a sigh. "Me neither," she admitted quietly.

"Then, by all means," Helen laid her hand firmly on Martha's arm, as if to shake her up, "let me do that!"

"No, Helen!" Martha protested vehemently, shaking off Helen's touch. "Even less than exposing myself to danger I like the idea of you doing so…" unable to express her precise concern, Martha suddenly broke down in her speech. She took Helen's hand into hers and held it with gentle pressure, looking Helen straight in the eyes. _'There's a fair chance one might not return. It shouldn't be the younger one of us, darling, you still have a life to live ahead of you.'_ Leaving these thoughts unspoken, Martha cleared her throat to go on, "And besides, I do not intend to go there alone. Come, let us request His blessing."

Eventually Martha let go of Helen, joined her hands and lowered her head. She was done debating. Helen wanted to pull out her hair. This was clearly a victory of stubbornness over reason. And there was little she could do against it. She saw Martha nervously twiddling with her fingers and understood it was her turn to put this request down in words.

"Give me a moment, please. I, too, can't do that extempore." Helen tried to delay things. It was a helpless attempt to gain some more time.

"That's all right, Helen. Take all the time you need," Martha said without looking up. She remained perfectly still, gathering her powers for the things that were to come.

Now it was Helen who spread disquiet when she started to walk up and down the room apparently without any distinct aim.

First of all she poured herself a glass of water. However, she never took a sip from it as her restless gaze fell on a certain vial among a collection of bottles and flagons. Helen put the glass down and went over to the shelf to fetch for the vial. She removed the cork and smelled the exhaling scent. Lavender. Yes, a little relaxation could not be amiss. With a short side glance on Martha, who wasn't likely to take further notice of her doing, Helen placed the open vial on the window sill at the far opposite side of the glass.

Having settled this, she casually reached into her right pocket and brought out a small white pebble. Her thumb gently stroked over its smooth surface, before the rest of her fingers began to fiddle with the stone as if it helped to get her thoughts in order. Not long and Helen had strolled back right in the middle between the untouched glass of water and the vial. She turned the stone in her hand a last time over before she put it on top of a pile of books. She did it in such indifferent manner that one might have thought she just wanted to get rid of it. In fact, the water, vial and stone built a perfect triangle in the room.

By now there was only one thing missing to complete the constituent parts of an old mighty rite, which she just couldn't resist to perform in view of the evil spirits of war, that had come so menacingly close. Thus, Helen lit a candle and put it opposite the stone, so that all four items lay in their correct order on an imaginary circle that safely enclosed the table with bandages and medicine where Martha and she would sit down to pray. Content with the arrangement, Helen took her seat and readied herself to speak.

"Dear Lord,

We've heard the sounds from the battlefield and our minds draw awful pictures already. We feel we should help and have gathered everything we consider to be helpful.

Yet I suppose all this can hardly be more than a drop in the bucket.

Still, it is a drop, given with the best of intentions.

See to it that it will reach those who stand in need.

I guess, men of both sides have asked your protection and aid before the battle.

Now I ask you to hear their cries, not regarding their color of uniforms.

And please, listen carefully for they might be too weak to speak loud and clear.

Whoever will take the victory, I trust you to be merciful enough not to forget the conquered and stand by the weak.

And even though they all may have become murderers, I ask you to be lenient.

I am well aware that you won't save all the lives, but perhaps you want to reconsider and at least diminish the casualties.

I know, you have the power to do it.

So, I ask for those who should be given a second chance.

I'm thinking of a father or the only son of a family or simply someone who hasn't settled things in this world yet.

Any reason is good enough to save a life.

Have mercy on them.

What else can I say?

They're just men.

You know how they are.

Please, forgive them…"

"… as you may want to forgive this daughter of yours her deplorable lack of humbleness when talking to you." Martha suddenly intervened pointedly. Seriously intent on bringing this most peculiar prayer to an end, she quickly closed with: "Amen."

"Amen." Helen submitted to the early end of her willful entreaty, a slight case of sulk showing in her face.

Martha met her with a censorious look. "Should I ever wonder why we live separated from the village, remind me to have you saying a prayer. I shall remember at once why we live alone. Gracious Goodness, Helen! Reverend Wilson would be upset with reason. Don't you have any decency in the face of the Lord that you dare to speak so bluntly to Him?"

"The Lord like no other does know my thoughts anyway. Why would I hide them in my prayers? You see, I am just trying to be honest in the face of the Lord. What's not to like?"

"What's not to like?!" Martha repeated, scandalized at such carefree attitude. "You cannot well beg the Almighty to raise people from the dead."

"No?" Helen assumed an air of surprise. "Well, who else, do you think, should I ask for this?"

"Jesus Christ, Helen! This is not the way His mercy is supposed to work. It borders blasphemy."

"Really? I call it pragmatic at best." Had Helen sounded rather ironically so far, she all of a sudden turned dead serious. "Numerous men out there are most possibly dead. Nothing worldly will ever trouble them again. But what about their families? What about those who are waiting for them, who are dependant on them? They are the ones to suffer greatly from all of this. Why not have the men come back and make them actually see what a shambles they have caused. And if the Lord should think my plea is too forward, I'm sure, he may find ways and means to chastise me."

Her words made Martha gasp and quickly cross herself. Eventually, she shook her head. Martha had learned it was quite pointless to discuss the subject any further. Helen had developed her very own way to look upon these things. Wordlessly, Martha put the bandages and remedies in a bag.

Both women spent a good while in silence to calm down their agitated minds.

Merely the sound of battle dared invading this awkward silence, causing it to appear even more sinister once the last cannon shot had ebbed. It was only then that Helen and Martha actually made contact again as they looked for their mutual confirmation that the fight was over. It was only soothing to some small extent, for it did also mean that the time to part had come.

The last explosions still rang in Helen's mind; she remembered this terrible kind of noises only too well and knew they boded of no good. She knew that the discovery of what had really happened would be tenfold worse. She had once seen what war could do to people. She wasn't sure if Martha really was aware of what was expecting her.

"Are you really sure, you want to go?" Helen inquired cautiously.

"I thought we were clear about it," Martha returned shortly, trying to cut off any further discussion.

"Yes. But still,… why not wait until tomorrow? It's raining in torrents. You'll be soaked wet in no time and so are the roads. Given the bad weather, it will darken much sooner than usual. Not to mention that there still might be isolated skirmishes going on…" Helen felt a lump in her throat, there were plenty of reasons why she wouldn't let Martha go. It preyed heavily on Helen's mind as she finally realized that she had failed to ask the Lord's protection for her friend. "Well,… you see,… what I'm trying to say is: It is dangerous."

"Yes, it is. And that is why I want you to stay here," Martha explained with steadfast voice. Her eyes, however, were full of concern when she went on in a most loving manner, "You see, I've lost my son, I do not wish to lose a daughter as well."

"Oh Martha," it affected Helen deeply to see the motives of her friend. Martha had never really got over the grievous loss of George, she would sacrifice herself rather than to take another blow of fate.

"Shh", Martha soothed her, clasping Helen in her arms tightly. "It's alright, dear." There they stood in desperate embrace.

Helen was not used to such emotional reaction from Martha. It got her an idea of how much the undertaking must weigh on her friend. "Let me fetch Nicolas for you," she offered. To improve the traveling conditions for Martha, was the least Helen could do.

"No, Helen." Martha rejected the offer right away, though. "You'll need the horse yourself."

Helen shuddered and fearfully gaped at Martha. It was true there was a chance Martha might not return. And apparently, Martha was even more aware of it than Helen. If Martha didn't return, the horse would be lost, too. Helen hadn't yet looked upon it this way. It embarrassed her to be the profiteer of such unselfish far-sighted care.

"Don't be afraid, my dear. God willing, I'll be back in a couple of days. Should He have others plans for me, though, I want to know you provided with everything you need to continue the work on this farm."

Helen couldn't say anything in return to this. It was Martha's unflinching way to keep things going. Helen gave a silent nod that amounted to promise. For the moment there was nothing left to do but to bid each other farewell.

"Take good care of yourself, will you?" Helen found herself urging on Martha.

"Sure, I will," Martha reassured her. "And I ask you to be careful yourself. Stick around the house and be sure to keep the door locked when night falls."

Helen took in the words, fearing it might be the last thing she would ever hear from Martha. Less than ever, she wanted Martha to go. But there was no going back, Martha had stepped out of the door and was on her way.

Despite the pouring rain, Helen remained standing on the porch and gazed after Martha whose shape was shrinking to a little dot, slowly melting with the environment until she had completely gotten out of sight.

10


	2. Alone

**Author's note:** Okay, it's an open secret: I am a lousy updater! My apologies - especially to those of you who were so kind to leave a review, asking for more. Thank you everyone for the generous gift of your attention and feedback.

I'd also like to thank **Lady Liadan** and **LazyChestnut** for their advice and beta-reading.

Another huge thanks goes to **GreenWoodElf** who never got tired of supplying me with information, and may it be such odd requests of mine like the weather report for January, 17th 1781 at Cowpens. Your skill of research is simply invaluable.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of The Patriot. Any OCs who may enter the scene are mine, though.

I don't own the November essay of the Llewellyn's Witches' calendar 2008. I'd very much like to seize the occasion and make you acquainted to Diana Rajchel who kindly allowed me to make use of her article she wrote for this calendar. I was enthralled when I read the November page and knew, I would have to take up on it. The entire passage starting out at _"__It was what some called the between time…"_ ending with _"…back toward light and life again."_ is basically of her making alone and I only made some very small changes to make it fit in the context of 'Don't look back'. If you happen to like this small snippet here, please don't miss the chance to check out more of Diana Rajchel's original work. There are also some stories of her up on ff. net. Look for **medea42**.

I do not own the poem 'Come! O come!' This poem, which you will find near the end of this chapter, also isn't part of my writing. It's authored by Doreen Valiente. I came across it awhile ago and couldn't help thinking that it does so apply to Tavington, at least as far as my imagination goes. Hope you like it just as much as I do and perhaps can second my associations there.

Very well, the wait was long enough now. So, shall we?

**Chapter 2 - Alone**

Helen went back in the house. And albeit closing the door properly behind her, she made a point of not locking it. This was in no way meant to object to Martha. Yet, it was another definite and proud denial to both, war and north wind, to ever get the reign over her.

However, when she came to stand right in the middle of the room her defiance began to abate and an odd feeling was taking hold of her. All of a sudden Helen felt it was she who was to blame. Only too clearly she recalled Martha's dismay about her questionable prayer, which probably should have been of a more pleading and devout nature instead. She wondered what on earth had been riding her to challenge the Lord in such daring manner as she had done this morning?

Principally, Helen wasn't overly afraid of incurring His unrestrained heavenly wrath. She saw no point in spending her life in permanent fear of a revengeful God who would strictly punish all trespasses. Telling from what she had seen of life so far, Helen had decided that it was rather mankind who had claimed the privilege on ruthless retaliation. Too often, people had tried to force her into unquestioning submissiveness. They had threatened her with the promise she would fall from His graces and into eternal damnation, if she wouldn't yield to the established rules and standards, behind which they usually just concealed their very own purposes. Helen doubted that extortion, menace and intimidation were the pillars of His divine righteousness, and so she had never fallen for those lies. No, the Almighty couldn't possibly be that narrow-minded. Instead, she preferred to place a huge amount of confidence in His gentle, lenient side. Wasn't it the ability to forgive rather than to punish, that told of true greatness? Helen wanted by all means to believe in God as a caring father who first and foremost loved His children despite their mistakes and lapses. At least, that was what she supposed fathers would do. In fact, Helen was lacking any first hand experiences on this matter. Regardless whether she was right or wrong, it still didn't make much sense to deliberately exploit His tolerance.

Helen gave an apologetic shrug of her shoulders. "Well, perhaps Martha has been right and I should ask your forgiveness", she conceded a little subdued. She was not regretting the wording of her prayer, though, which had aroused Martha's displeasure in the first place. The manner in which she had spoken to God was not worrying her. It was rather for the fact that she had not spoken to God alone. And no matter how ever noble-minded her aim may have been, Helen had to admit, that even _His _patience might wear thin at some point. "I know I ought to be more faithful. I did not mean to offend you, but you see, twofold seams last longer. And supposing that the elements are indeed yours, it does no harm to trouble them for some extra help, does it?"

When nothing apocalyptical happened, she took it as His silent assent.

Helen closed her eyes, collecting herself within the invisible circle that she had cast. Not without reason, Helen had placed those four items precisely in those places. It was an exactly prescribed constellation of an ancient rite that served to fortify any effect one was about to obtain. And Helen had sincerely wished to help. Bearing a profound disgust for war and its outrage, it had been her declared aim to make her medicine as powerful as possible.

On second thoughts, there was something else to be done on that specific purpose. Helen had been rather restricted in the picking of auxiliary materials with Martha around, and thus had decided on lavender to simplify matters. Surely, it was an excellent choice whenever one wished for health and peace to turn up. Now, in regard of the rather precarious circumstances out there, it would be just as helpful to ask for protection as well. Driven by the strong urge to make up for it, Helen fetched mortar and pestle, where she would crush a few corns of black pepper. Soon, the characteristically sharp yet somewhat sweet odor of this powerful spice was in the air. Helen took a quick sniff, envisioning how its strength was unfolding, flying out to shield from adversity, hoping it would reach Martha at the very least.

Then Helen stood still in her place, highly concentrated as she meant to locate the attendance of the invoked energies. And while patiently waiting for any kind of an answer, she just couldn't avoid thinking what a shame it was how people tended to meet her with nothing but distrust for those things she did, never acknowledging that she performed them with the best intentions. She only could hope that the Lord would see her actions in a different light as He looked upon them from a distance.

Eventually, she felt a sense of reassuring safety embracing her.

"I shall be surprised if Martha won't be successful," Helen murmured as a relieved smile rose to her face. She was very pleased to find that the natural forces were seemingly inclined to grant their power. "Very well, let's bring it to an end then."

Helen opened her eyes again and began to finish her work on the four items. "I thank you," she said softly to each of them and removed the water, vial, stone and candle.

While doing so, an unexplainable discomfort was taking hold of her, though. It had become second nature with Helen to keep clear of any unwanted observers to the performance of her ritual work. Or, when this wasn't possible like this morning, she cared to make it look like random in order to conceal the ulterior purpose. Now, it felt rather strange, when there was no one to hide these actions from. Just as there was no one who would tell her to get out of the damp cold clothes and get herself something warm and dry to get wrapped in. Helen felt down. With Martha gone, the small hut appeared horribly empty. Not that she minded being on her own. But right now, she felt alone.

The constant ticking of the old grandfather clock did nothing to comfort her. As a rule, the even, regular sound would have a calming effect on Helen. Now, it was abnormally loud and tended to get unnerving.

The clock was one of the few fixtures Martha had added to their household.

Helen would never have laid an enhanced value on the presence of a chronometer in her surroundings. There once was a time when her days had been scheduled down to the minute and she felt no desire to fall back into any of those habits. The ringing of the distant church bell would have done it for her in case she ever wished to know a precise time of the day. For everything else, Helen assumed that the sun, moon and stars would reliably tell her all she ever needed to know to get through the day and the year as well. Martha, however, had insisted that she felt more comfortable with a clock in reach. In the end, Helen had respected her wish.

Although it had been made with reluctance, the concession was meant to make for Helen's advantage. Despite her initial concern of having her time anew mapped out by someone else's idea, the adjustment to the hours turned out to be most helpful. Martha's time-table was surprisingly well balanced. Soon, there was a busy routine to the day that, however, never failed to allow each of them a sufficient latitude for their personal wants. Helen had neither been in danger to lose herself in work, nor did she dream her days away. Duty and spare time stood in pleasing proportion to each other. As a result, Helen had succeeded fairly well in her attempt to build and run this farm, while there always was still a time reserved to talk and read and contemplate new undertakings, yes, even to commune with oneself when necessary. It was due to Martha that Helen had learned how to dispose of her time more efficiently. It was like she had become the spring that kept Helen running nicely. Along with the clock, Martha had finally brought an agreeable steadiness to Helen's life.

Martha. It was incredible how much Helen missed her already. Helen gazed over to the clock-face, somewhat afraid of finding the hands going faster or perhaps even backward. That was what it felt like, now that its rightful owner was absent. But everything appeared to be the same as usual, except for the uncanny volume of the ticking. Helen just couldn't stop thinking that the clock was related to Martha in some special way. Maybe the loudness hinted at Martha's troubles of the moment. If so, did the mad ticking mean to tell of the horrors that her friend was currently going through? Was the odd frequency of swings symbol of her heartbeat? And what, if it suddenly stopped?

Only when Helen found her own heart palpitate vehemently, she eventually understood that the summoned energies were still running high. She had cleared away all objective components of the ritual. What was still left to do was to regain mental calm and order as well. She sat herself on the wooden floor, gently pressing her palms on the planks to allow the surplus powers to flow from her mind and body. After a while she felt better. And the ticking was back to normal level.

Helen rose to her feet. She was glad to find that the clock sounds were no longer tinged with ominous suspense. The power of imagination had played a trick on her. Or was it the eerie silence of her loneliness? Whatever the case, there was absolutely nothing that would have hinted at a mystic bond between the clock and Martha. It had been just an illusion, Helen assured herself. However, as a mere precaution, Helen strode over to the clock and rewound it. Just to be on the safe side. She could do no more for her friend at the moment.

Having settled this, Helen was ready to proceed to some more ordinary work. But what was she to do? The bath needed no longer to be set. A nice stockpile of logs was prepared, the livestock was fed. Weather would not permit that Helen tended to the tasks that would usually fall to her lot such as repairing the garden fence or the barn's roof. Today, she would have to look for some indoor occupation.

It was not long before Helen came across something. The pile of clothes that needed mending had almost grown as big as the heap of regular laundry. Had Martha taken the bath, she surely would have insisted on using the water for the clothes afterwards. Nonetheless, Helen was astonished to see how huge both heaps had indeed gotten. Obviously, Martha had neglected this particular work quite a bit. Knowing about her problems of lately, Helen couldn't blame her. It worried her greatly to see how hard the pain must have been on her friend that she was so behind on her chore. It just wasn't like Martha to let her work rest. Yet, not to bring such backlog up or let alone ask for support, perfectly was. It embarrassed Helen not to have noticed any sooner. Once Martha returned, she would have to remember to be more circumspect and think of a subtle way to redistribute their scope of duties. With a sigh Helen fetched her sewing kit. If they didn't want to run low of clean and proper clothing, it had to be done anytime soon. Certainly, Martha would appreciate her efforts. But when Helen thought of all the ironing that would also be required later, her enthusiasm slowed down considerably.

Longingly, Helen gazed out of the window. No, the current weather conditions would not supply her with a pretext good enough to evade the patching. Listlessly, she set about stitching up a ruined pocket on an apron. However, Helen's mind was not on her work and so her eyes wandered off to the rain soaked yard while her thoughts ranged the past.

Where she came from, January without snow was unthinkable. A world of rain, and that's what they called winter here. It was nothing comparable to the winters she had seen in her youth. And even after about seven years in the colonies, most of which were spent here in the south, she missed the wintry season. Did this sound strange? Could one really miss winter, the disheartening untoward season where many suffered from cold and privation? It almost felt like sin to think that way. The mild climate of South Carolina was preferable to the hard and rough condition she used to cope with in the Westerwald. It was a pleasure to see how effortlessly all vegetation seemed to grow here. But then again, she truly missed the very time of the year when snow and ice would take the scepter.

Helen starred through the curtains of rain outside, her mind suggesting they were snowflakes. Who could ever be indifferent to it? Helen knew practically no one who wouldn't have stopped for a moment to marvel at the bizarre beauty of chill and frost. Before her mental eye Helen watched winter making its appearance.

Light as feathers, the icy little crystals danced gracefully from the sky. Coming freshly from heaven like silent prayers, they got slightly mixed up by a gentle draft of wind before they would touch the earth, being destined to cast a soft sheet over all misery and maudlin. Pastures and woods would come to lay under a big snowy blanket. Darkness lost its terror, when the landscape presented itself in a thick white mantle of innocence, making the world look neat and sleepy. It had always filled her with joy to see nature wearing its white gown. It was a relief to the eye when neither color nor shape would compete for one's attention. Any hurry would lose its grip on people for a while. Even the church bell ringing was different in winter. It went straight to the heart. Sometimes she was tempted to believe that it was sign of divine righteousness when each roof in the village looked alike, making no difference in its splendor. As a little girl, she had enjoyed to warm herself at the hearth. When coming home, frozen from work and play outside, there was nothing like sitting on a bench by the stove, where she could smell the baked apples within while anxiously listening to the old tales. It was so peaceful an atmosphere that sought its peer. Possibly, it was the most pleasant memory of her childhood, and winter clearly was part of it.

Even when she grew up and learned to look upon things from different angles, she never failed to merrily welcome the first snow flakes, knowing that they boded of the near end of another, even more depressing time of the year.

It was what some called the between time, the time when death was still an active force in the world, before the snows fell in earnest to properly bury the decay so evident at the end of fall. It was the time when the land stayed in a state of flux, as sunlight steadily dwindled and the land progressively cooled. According to the Germanic legend, it was the time of the Wild Hunt. The story went that god Odin and his Furious Host would run through the night collecting the souls of the dead - specifically the dead that were evil-doers in life. But the living were not exactly immune from his encroachment, either. Witnesses were said to suffer death or ill fortune within the run of a year when spying the Wild Hunt. Either way, there were sacrifices to be made, and souls to be lost, before Yule, the winter solstice, would come and turn the wheel of the year back toward light and life again.

Helen just couldn't help thinking that the missing snow in her new home just prolonged this eerie time. From today on it was only just about another fortnight to Candlemas, the very point of the year when the days visibly began to lengthen. In fact, though, times threatened to get darker than ever. By now the Wild Hunt should have echoed off long ago. But apparently the Raging Host was still lively at work. Or What else should this fatal encounter of troops in such unsettling close vicinity be considered?

Helen shuddered at the thought of this dreadful clutter of soldiers. Patriots. Loyalists. Continentals. British. When the cannons rang out and the muskets were fired, it was always mortals who lost their lives. How could any party claim a glorious victory when war in itself was the worst defeat of all? At some point of events even the most reasonable minds had conceded that taking up arms was the only way left and had voted for the levy. At the time it had been thought to be a campaign of just a few months, by now it had continued on for years. And finally here they were, exposed to the arbitrariness of violence. Helen could only hope that neither the Furious nor the Heavenly Host would come and erroneously collect dear Martha on that occasion. She'd been pretty wise when she'd gone indoors.

Helen glanced over to the shelf where she and Martha kept a copy of Thomas Paine's Common Sense. Under the immediate concern of never seeing her friend again, Helen was wondering if the cause would warrant such sacrifice.

At first read, Helen had been enthusiastic about the basic idea. Had anyone ever seriously asked her stance, she certainly would have affirmed her sympathy for the patriots. Too alluring was their endeavor to break with the old order of the world. The prospect of spending life in freedom and independence made Helen breathe again. More than once she had fallen a victim to bigotry and coercion, starting out at the event of her mere birth. It was so promising an idea not to be predetermined by heritance as not to picture it in the most glowing colors. She would just have loved to live in a world where she herself would be in charge of her fate. A new kind of liberty was in the offing. A true liberty, which the world had not yet seen. To cast off the scourge of oppression and intolerance had an irresistible ring to it.

In the past, women of her kind had been singled out, pursued and sentenced to death by most questionable presentations of evidence. The Enlightenment in no small measure had eventually called a halt to the Burning Times. And it was the Enlightenment, which had paved the grounds for the big changes that were going on at the moment. The common people were ready to translate into action what philosophers had propagated.

The time was right, no doubt, otherwise Paine's pamphlet would not have found such quick and wide response when it had been published five years ago. And she had to hand it to him, his demands were opportune and necessary, but she couldn't help noticing that it probably left little space for her own personal wants and hopes.

For some reason, it filled her with concern to find him so firm in his conviction, grimly determined to accept only what deemed him to be right. He was just as stringent in his opposition as the British were on their terms. His line of argumentation was clearly imprinted by the Christian philosophy of life. As it was, Helen had difficulties to find herself entirely in it. What, if her belief wouldn't bear closer examination? What, if she failed to smoothly fit into the frame of those favored ideals?

Sure, Paine had explicitly advocated religious freedom. But would it indeed apply for all kinds of faith? He made quite a point of distancing himself from the Heathens. Did this imply that religion would only count as such if it was based on the Scriptures? Helen had strong doubts that an openly declared devotion to a Goddess for instance would ever pass muster.

However, Paine's call for tolerance of the different religious opinions had been sustained by Jefferson three years later when the Act for Establishing Religious freedom had been published. Judging by appearances, they were all serious about granting people their freedom in the practice of their faith.

And yet, it left Helen suspicious.

Just as suspicious as people were in case one showed too much interest in those things that supposedly lay anywhere between reason and religion. Despite the generally growing allowance for tolerance and liberty towards the individual, Helen felt that she was well advised not to incautiously show the whole of her being. Even after seven years, one month and a day of spending life among the colonials, she had not exactly been met with a warm reception. It was like people would sense at first sight that there was something special about her and therefore were intent to keep their distance.

Practically speaking, though, she did nothing that any other person with their wits about them wouldn't have been able to do as well. There was no spell work going on at all. To call upon the elements was no more and no less an act of belief in higher spirits than to speak a prayer.

It wasn't any kind of evil hocus-pocus she ever worked. She just knew a lot of things that others didn't overly care about. Was knowledge a sin? She had never caused the elementary laws to act out of the ordinary… Or maybe only just once? No. No, it must have been pure coincidence. It hadn't been magic. It was long ago.

Regardless of the fact that no one was ever in danger of getting impaired by her doing, Helen had no doubt that she would have gotten branded as charlatan, shunned, harassed even and pushed far away from any threshold of tolerance, in case people should ever become aware of the basic ideas behind her work.

Currently, though, there was barely anyone concerned about people's faiths as the general attention was mainly attracted to the latest events of war and the attainment of independence. The patriots, who fervently fought for their cause, made quite a point of proudly striving for their liberty and self-determination. They wanted to create a whole new world on this continent: a world where all humans were supposed equal and in case of an American victory were to receive their portion of freedom, just in accordance to the rights of mankind. Helen couldn't but think about the slaves. As matters stood, it was unlikely that they would be granted their freedom, too. Were they not part of mankind then? When Paine had spoken of mankind, did he really mean it or was he just talking colonial white God-fearing men? What about the natives? What about slaves, heathens, women? What about her? What kind of liberty would this be?

Helen sighed and urged herself to finish another couple of stitches instead of musing over things that were hardly ever considered to be of her concern anyhow. She felt quite bad for questioning the sincerity of the motives for the cause. Probably, there were more ardent supporters than her. Maybe she had best stop arguing and just ought to consider herself lucky to have arrived in the colonies at a time when shouts for freedom and life in self-determination were resounded. People had gotten more and more involved in the conflict, which had started almost at the same time as Helen had set her first step on these lands. Like on that day when no one had really taken notice of her 'landing', in the growing conflict she had remained unmolested for the most part. For the moment, people still were mainly busy to tell patriots from loyalists, in so far they were not fearing for their immediate safety and welfare. Yet, the question remained - What when they resumed their ordinary lives?

Eventually, Helen understood that there was no point in forcing herself to the patchwork when her mind was busy otherwise. She laid the apron aside and went over to the shelf to take a look at one of her favorite passages of the by now often read and therefore slightly thumbed copy of Common Sense.

"…_instead of gazing at each other with suspicious or doubtful curiosity, let each of__ us hold out to his neighbor the hearty hand of friendship, and unite in drawing a line, which, like an act of oblivion, shall bury in forgetfulness every former dissension. Let the names of Whig and Tory be extinct; and let none other be heard among us, than those of a good citizen, an open and resolute friend, and a virtuous supporter of the rights of mankind, and of the free and independent States of America." _

It looked so well on the paper.

But would it stand the test? What would happen, once people started to concentrate on the personal affairs again? As long as everyone was still discussing and focusing on war, she was mostly free to do as she liked or at least no one blamed her. What when calm and peace were re-established? Would it really be an open-minded tolerant society? After all, she was of German descent, it had not even been of her own free will that she had come to the colonies. And it were her fellow countrymen who had been sent to fight alongside the British. Would the patriots resent her for that? In case the colonies would take the final victory, would she indeed be granted the chance to become a true part of this new nation? Also, ever since she had been taught how to call upon the powers of the other world, Helen had cared not to let anyone openly witness what she was doing whenever she was actually doing it. So, wouldn't it just be nice, if she didn't have to hide her actions form anyone in the future? Would this new world finally offer a place for people like her? What would it all eventually turn out to be like? Sometimes, she found herself not really wanting to know the answer.

Looking through the passage another time, Helen reprimanded herself for being wary. She wanted to believe in a successful outcome. Deep down, she wished for the patriots to decide the matter in favor of their cause notwithstanding the fact that there was a chance she might be not entirely welcome. The basic idea was promising and well-intended. Perhaps the world simply wasn't yet prepared for more.

Suddenly, her reflections got interrupted by a hollow rumbling noise. It was indeed Helen's stomach that had made itself heard. And Helen had to admit that she felt slightly hungry. It was far past noon, but the events of the day had made them skip the repast. Now that she was alone, she felt little desire to make the effort of preparing a meal of her own. To sit at the table with nobody else, would only have added on her loneliness. Helen decided to appease her hunger without cooking and setting the table for herself. Thus, she put the copy away and helped herself to one nice red-cheeked apple, well aware, though, that Martha would have told her off in no uncertain terms. Since she had moved in, Martha had set great store to follow the unwritten order of the day. She would never have allowed her to just skip a mealtime for the sake of musing and reverie. If anything, Martha had known to cure Helen of self-pity and idleness as well.

Nonetheless, she took a rather big bite of the apple and chewed, contently enjoying the savory flavor. According to the Christian faith, an apple was the forbidden fruit, pure and simple. People were fairly quick to point their finger towards Eve, blaming her for having caused the first sin, while none of them would realize that on the same instant three fingers of their outstretched hand would point at themselves. Well knowing that the mere trying of an apple had roused the wrath of God for the very first time, wouldn't one think that every proper Christian would avoid the fruit, not daring to tempt the almighty Creator once more? However, Helen knew practically no respectable churchgoer who wouldn't have stored a great amount of apples at the end of autumn and make ample use of them during almost the whole year. So, what was their point in condemning it to be the ultimate symbol of sin?

Among the wise women, the apple was held in much higher esteem. They were considerably less burdened with hypocrisy, and for them it was known to provide the human soul with love, peace and happiness. Helen smiled. The thought was almost self-suggesting, that she could do worse than having a fair portion of these. Therefore, she allowed herself to indulge in the delicate sweet taste of a further bite, taking in peace, contentment and freedom from worry with every little morsel. Without difficulty, Helen visualized the fruity juice itself washing away all negative thoughts. These were indeed dispelled as soon as the apple had gone.

Freshly braced, her gaze fell on the bathtub that stood somewhat lost in one corner of the room. She couldn't help grinning when she realized a vague affinity to it. There was a great emptiness within the two of them. But now she saw that there was no good reason to leave it at that. Should all the trouble of dragging it form the outbuildings to here have been in vain? The wood was chopped as well. If Martha couldn't take the bath, she still could do it in her stead. And why would she not? She would fill the tub for her own benefit and banish the emptiness along with the eerie shadows of war. She would not allow that fright or sadness cut into her activities more than necessary. Also, with due deference to Martha's propensity to discipline and order: What would it matter, if Helen kept a slack rein just for today? The patchwork along with the laundry could surely afford another day's delay. Right tomorrow morning she would set about it with a fresh mind.

"Very well then, let's get to it," Helen said to herself and started to take up the preparations that had found such abrupt end this morning. Why not change this awkward loneliness into a much more agreeable time of her own?

Helen grabbed a coat and began to bring in fresh water, bucket for bucket, until the tub was sufficiently filled. It would take some time to warm it up and Helen knew perfectly well what to do in the meantime.

For a change, it really was a rare occasion to care for her private concerns, which she had neglected for a rather long time now. Despite the fact that she lived separated from the village there hadn't been so many chances where she would actually have been unobserved. No matter how dear a confidant Martha had grown to her, Helen had still refused to entrust her with each and every thing. In fact, there was something Helen had always painfully cared to reserve to those moments of absolute seclusion. So, if there could be gained anything positive from the current situation, then it was the certainty not to be disturbed for a good while.

As soon as the first cauldron with water was put on, Helen went over to the sleeping chamber and pulled out a small blue trunk from under her bed. She freed it from a thin layer of dust and tenderly stroked over the brass ornaments that described the shapes of many little fleur-de-lis, adorning the edges. It was an exquisite piece of craft, likely to be found among the belongings of a wealthy family. Here in the midst of this simple farm house it appeared quite out of place. As it was, Helen had never learned the slightest bit about its true origin, but for obscure reasons it had grown as dear to her as if it was a just heirloom. It filled her with a strange kind of pride to watch over it from the moment on that it had passed into her possession. No living soul had ever cast an eye on the treasures within since she had been given it. Furthermore, it was the only thing that had remained from her European past.

Almost solemnly, she opened the trunk. Green cloth came to sight. Pensively she reached for it.

'_What am I supposed to do with it?'_ she once had asked in amazement. She had been in need for everything else but a bale of green fabric by the time that she had been excluded so unceremoniously from her putative substitute family.

'_You will know what to do when time is due,'_ had been the odd answer.

For a long time she hadn't known what to do with it at all. Nothing would ever speak to her when she looked or reached at it until finally a distinct idea had started to form, causing Helen to give the finely textured fabric new shape. Over the years she had changed the shapeless green cloth into a fairly nice gown, which at this present state was only missing a proper hem. There had never been a doubt with her, how the dress would look in the end. Its form and pattern had clearly been in her mind from the minute on that she had started her work on it. Only her time had been limited and sometimes the means as well.

Nonetheless, Helen had succeeded at last. She had even thought to know on what particular purpose to wear it, firmly convinced it had to be the day when she would get married to George, just as if turning herself into the young Goddess who wore her green skirt as the visible sign that she was ready and willing to choose her partner. In her imagination there was no place for the thought that most probably Martha wouldn't have allowed that her daughter-in-law would wear a green dress on the very occasion anyway. But sadly, it had never been meant to be. Thus, the gown had remained unfinished.

Now that Helen held the unfolded dress in her hand, an irresistible urge to put it on was growing in her. She felt like wearing it tonight. Why, though, she couldn't tell. There was no potential suitor far and wide; mostly thanks to Martha who had made quite sure of that. No, there was not to be expected anyone to see her in it and yet, the desire to finally slip into it was stronger than ever. She anxiously reached for her sewing kid anew. Since she could remember she had taken more pleasure in spending her energy on new things than bothering to merely patch up the old ones. Now that she was seriously intent on doing some needlework, Helen found that the natural rate of light left much to be desired. The dull weather caused her to light a candle, since she wanted to complete this work as accurately as possible.

Helen had been clad in quite a few different specific clothes during her life. This dress was probably the most precious one and warranted a careful accomplishment. George's clothes, which she wore at the moment, were definitely the most convenient ones so far and the most practical ones at that. His clothes, they had made her sweat and kept her warm. When Helen recalled the day she was given them, sweet-bitter memory was welling up.

Only a couple of weeks after George had died, Martha had paid her a visit. At least that was what Helen had thought, when she had seen Martha approaching her modest home. Little had she known that Martha had decided to move to her, regardless of the fact that she'd never become her regular mother-in-law. With two bags in her hands she had stepped up to Helen's door, sweaty and thirsty, visibly exhausted from the walk. For nothing in the world, Helen had been able to send her away again.

Instead, Helen had offered her something to drink and to eat and had made the mistake to ask about the bags. In one of them had been Martha's in the other had been George's clothes. Martha had handed the latter over to Helen who had not understood at once what Martha had meant to say by this gesture. Fate would have had it that she had not become George's wife, thus, she had no legal claim to his left goods and even less use thereof. But Martha had set her right and insisted that Helen would take them - not to keep them in memory, but to wear them and save her own few dresses for better occasions.

Today, Helen didn't mind wearing his clothes. But when she had put them on for the first time, his scent had still been fully present. Once dressed in his shirt and breeches, her own body heat had caused his dear familiar odor to evaporate from the fabric. It had reached Helen's nose so unexpectedly, suffusing her senses without let or hindrance, Helen could have sworn he must stand right behind her, painfully knowing it wasn't true. Wearing his attire had seemed impossible, if she didn't wish to go insane. Helen had feared to die of suffocation, when wearing his clothing. But Martha had known to help her getting over it. She had made her work. Martha had encouraged her to continue to work the little farm, even without George. Being a widow herself, she wanted to stay with Helen, helping and sustaining her wherever possible. And Helen had to hand it to her, she had stood for her word. Soon, the two women had learned to live with each other.

While Martha had unmistakably voiced that she herself would undertake the classical woman's work, it had fallen to Helen to get acquainted with the rest. It hadn't been long before Helen had come to appreciate the advantages of wearing breeches when working outside at the farm, doing the garden, plugging the fields, riding, reaping. Not to mention how much more agreeable it was to fetch fresh water from the nearby pond and not to turn back with soaked skirts. Eventually, the odd scent of George's supposed presence had worn off. By and large, there was only one real disadvantage with wearing men's clothing: Her most unusual attire had added a lot to gain her the reputation of being peculiar; shady even. In course of time, though, Helen had got accustomed to both, wearing breeches and bearing the talk.

Every now and then, however, Helen would seize the occasion and wear her dresses. This time she was all the more excited as it was a really marvelous addition to her otherwise modest assortment of clothing. Helen could feel the excitement growing with every further stitch. She couldn't wait to finally experience how it would feel to be veiled in such elegant robe. Once the last thread was sewed up, Helen was surprised to find how late it had gotten. As a fact, it was late in the afternoon, when she was finally done.

During the entire needlework, however, Helen had again and again poured cauldrons of boiled water to the tub. By now it had reached an agreeable warmth. There was one further kettle on the hearth and Helen used the remaining time to restore some order. Swiftly, she put away all things that reminded her of work and lit a few more candles until the room was plunged in cozy warm light. Along with the last portion of hot water, Helen added a cup of goat milk and a handful of dried chamomile flowers. Stirring the mixture a little, Helen inhaled the mildly fragranced water smoke as it spread its delicate sweetness.

Finally Helen took the green dress and almost made a little ceremony of it when she laid it on the kitchen table and began to lovingly arrange every fold and frill down to the last detail. And it was no sooner than this was settled to her liking, that Helen got undressed. That again went without much ado as her shirt and breeches were simply tossed somewhat slovenly over a kitchen chair. When one stocking failed to rest on top of the pile, Helen could not even be bothered to pick it up as she decided that it would go to the laundry anyway by tomorrow. No further time was wasted to get into the inviting wet.

As a rule, she enjoyed every minute of bathing time, never disinclined to extend it as long as possible. But tonight she would not muster up the patience. The new green gown kept catching her attention. Beautifully draped on the kitchen table, it simply appealed too much to her to keep her overly long in the bath. In keen anticipation she got washed and out of the tub again, even before the water had any chance to cool.

Helen had only just finished rubbing herself dry, when she caught sight of her own naked body. She took a little playful pose and watched her reflection in the window glass. The closing night did add a lot to make her fair skin standing out rather nicely to the dark almost black background. She liked this sight of herself. Quite frankly, her shape was passably well formed and it was a real pity that no man was likely to ever take a look at it.

She gently touched her body and enjoyed the sensation on her skin. Never was it more obvious how rough her hands had turned from the hard farm work. Despite all care they had forfeited most of their female grace. When Helen closed her eyes it almost felt like a man would glide his hands over the otherwise soft skin of her body. Almost. She wished that George could be here to touch her this way. Her last time dated back to what felt like an eternity. There was no gainsaying that Helen longed for a man, a real man, to caress her, to spoil her, to venture on her intimate zones and appease her carnal desire. Was that why she wished to wear the dress, that it might help her to find herself a man? Helen sighed deeply, knowing there was little to no prospect.

"Oh George, are you anywhere above there?" Helen whispered with shy curiosity. "You see, I know well, you've never been able to see me that way. So, come and watch me now. This is just for you."

At first a little insecure, Helen cupped her breast, playing tenderly with them. After a while, she got more sure of her actions and coquetted with her mirror image. Eventually, she thought herself quite attractive and was hardly able to take her eyes off her most pleasant curves. Was it appropriate to behave like that? She imagined the scandalized faces of the locals, if someone would happen to watch her from outside. What would they think of her? Ultimately, though, she banned those thoughts from her mind and indulged in the delicate joy of pleasuring herself. This was exclusively for George and for her and Helen would only stop when she had taken her own private satisfaction out of it.

With her worst craving quenched, Helen was no longer certain about making the effort to slip into the new gown. What was it good for, when there was nobody's attention to be engaged while wearing it? However, Helen picked it from the table and held it before herself. Once again she used the window as a mirror, to get a small foretaste of the final picture. But then she was enthused by what she saw and could not resist to venture a rollicking little dance through the room, not caring the least that she was still more naked than dressed. She was too busy picturing herself as she swung effortlessly through a fancy ballroom, led by the yet unknown man of her heart. She wouldn't know when, she wouldn't know how, but she knew that this gown had not been made for naught.

Unable to stop herself from it, she hummed a simple yet pleasing air, eventually filling it with rhyme:

"_Come! O come! To the heartbeat's drum!_

_Come to us who gather below_

_When the broad white moon is climbing slow_

_Through the stars to the heavens height_

_We hear Thy hoofs on the wind of night_

_As black tree branches shake and sigh_

_By joy and terror we know Thee nigh_

_We speak the spell Thy power unlocks_

_At Solstice, Sabbat and Equinox."_

Bang! From one second to the next Helen was struck with unspeakable horror. The door had burst open and flapped against the wall. A heavy cold blast swept through the room, the candlelight flared up like mad, the light fabric of her skirt fluttered wildly around Helen's legs and her pulse was flying as she shrieked in utter despair. Everything was in a riot on the instant that the tall commanding figure of a man had stepped in. This wasn't George, nor any other man Helen knew. The intruder swiftly peered about the inside before he fixed his pitiless cold eyes on Helen. Her screams died under his piercing stare.

When the stranger on his part had finished mustering her, he raised his gun on the absolutely needless purpose for intimidating her some more. Slowly, he made a few steps in her direction and croaked, "Are you alone?"

* * *

A/N: Oh well, you may have noticed a further quotation that isn't my own. For obvious reasons I had no chance to ask Mr. Paine's alright to make use of it. ;) No, seriously, I am aware that I put a critical spotlight on his 'Common Sense' and that is maybe only because I am 'from the future', so to say. Most probably no one at his time would have posed such questions as Helen does. Now, Helen is a little… special, isn't she? While I do see some reasons for her to be wary, I am really anxious to learn how you felt about her concerns.

Also, this chapter contains quite a few hints about former ad future events concerning this story. Did you spot any? All? None? Did anything ring a bell with you or would you just consider it a random and therefore rather boring 'lining-up' of thoughts and events? This is quite interesting to me and I would appreciate any kind of feedback here.

Very well then, take a chance, make a guess, faites vos jeux, Ladies and Gentlemen! (Gentlemen? No, it can't be, can it? Or is there any man reading this out there? Just wondering?)

However, no matter what gender, confession or nationality you are, I thank you for reading, I hope you've enjoyed it and I just love to hear from you.


	3. No place to die

No place to die

/tmp/uploads/FF817774.doc

**A/N**: I am truly delighted to have so very kind readers like you who gave me all that thoughtful feedback. It's so thrilling to learn about your thoughts on certain things and it helps a great deal to refine my writing. Thank you so much.

My special thanks goes to the wonderful **mercywriter** who helped me with amazingly versed hand through this chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I claim no ownership of 'The Patriot'. Yet, I've taken some liberties with the costume question of one certain character. ;)

**Chapter 3 - No place to die**

Helen didn't budge. Couldn't budge. Numb with cold and fear, all she could do was gape at the muzzle aimed straight at her. She clawed at the dress' green fabric - a questionable shield at best. With a silent promise to comply with any order he might give, she prepared for the worst.

The stranger watched her like a predacious animal, crouched to strike at any moment. Incalculable, vicious, his gaze pierced into her. Helen chided herself a fool for being stubborn and careless. She had practically presented herself on a silver platter. Why hadn't she locked the door? Thrown something over herself when she'd had the opportunity? What did it matter? Now it was too late. She would do, unquestioningly, whatever he demanded. If only he would let her live.

His grim features revealed nothing of his ulterior designs upon her. Never had Helen been exposed to a pair of such striking blue eyes that had the power to frighten her out of her wits. She did her best to hold his stare. They eyed each other, each of them with a suspicious mind of their own.

But Helen's heart sank with each second that passed. Pleadingly, she shook her head, meaning to beg the stranger not to shoot. He was a regular soldier, no doubt, but it took her a while to recognize his affiliation to the British. Unlike the usual regal red coat, this one wore a green uniform jacket. She gasped. A Green Dragoon! Only the finest light cavalry of the world. The most lethal fighting force in history.

'_Are you alone?' _she suddenly recalled the man's actual question and forced herself to nod instead.

"Yes, Sir," Helen hurried to affirm the intruder. "I… I am alone. Entirely alone, Sir." Her voice had been hardly more than a desperate whisper, but luckily the man seemed contented.

"Good." He gasped and lowered his weapon.

Helen breathed a little easier. A little. She was far from feeling at ease. Helen did not have the courage to move or to speak as she feared the consequences, should this man dislike any of her actions. And so, she remained standing still, quietly observing the stranger who resumed his examination from where he had left off.

As it seemed, he would not trust her words for even a second, since his eyes scrupulously searched each corner of the room. He looked hounded, ravaged, desperate. There wasn't a dry stitch on him. His hair hung about his shoulders, a slovenly muddle of dripping wet strands which at one time had likely been tied up in a severe queue. By now the black strap had loosened and appended only disorderly to a handful of strands. The rest fell in a tangled locks over his shoulder or stuck in dark strands to his damp, sallow skin. How long may he have been on his way already? And what might have put a stately British soldier like him in such unkempt state? Helen could see him breathing hard. His voice had been raucous. Whether the result of his exhaustion or an injury, Helen couldn't say for sure. The formerly white fabric of his collar was drenched in gore and told of no good.

His restless keen eyes were the most lively part of him, certainly well trained to catch minor details to fathom the whole picture. Only too soon, they came to rest on the pile of clothes that Helen had so carelessly flung over the chair. Helen held her breath as she guessed his thoughts and cursed herself for not having put them in the laundry at once. She was practically naked and those were the clothes of a man who might be hidden just next door.

"Not quite so alone then, are you?" The stranger glared at her. Helen winced at the sharp click of the firing pin being cocked anew.

"Oh no!… Yes!… No!" She stammered, unnerved by the man's hostile bearing. "Listen, Sir. This is not what it looks like." Helen's every limb trembled under his withering stare, but she forced herself to speak on. "I was not lying. I _am_ alone. Please, believe me." Her voice quivered, betraying the hysteria threatening to overtake her. He took a step closer. Panic rushed through her veins. She stepped back. "No, Sir! Please, wait! I can explain. It may strike you as strange, but… you see… these clothes,… they are…" Already having a hard time speaking in full sentences, her voice trailed off completely.

The man did not seem to listen. With an evident lack of body control, he staggered. Like drunken, he flailed his arms to keep his balance. When he failed to catch hold of something to prevent him from falling, he reached for her, only to reel back again. He was weak, so very weak, Helen could see it now. His eyes rolled up into his head. He stumbled and fell on his knees. He blinked in an effort to focus on her again, opened his mouth to speak. All that came out was a gargling sound and he collapsed on the floor with a thud.

"…mine." Helen finished breathlessly into the eerie silence.

The candle flames danced wildly on their wicks, enhancing the unsettling mood. Helen remained stiff with shock. It wasn't until another squall bounced the door against the wall that Helen overcame her fear and abandoned her stupor. She raced to the door and slammed it shut, this time anxious to actually lock it. Should he have had any other men in tow, whether they be pursuers or companions, they wouldn't have the chance to enter her house as easily.

When she turned around, the light was calm and steady again. But Helen still trembled all over. The unknown man lay prone in the middle of the room, giving no sign of life.

Helen bit her lip, trying to regain a clear thought. It went without saying that she would give care to anyone who was in need, which naturally included the stranger. She frowned. If he still needed anything. There was a fair chance that he had just passed away. Helen swallowed hard at the thought. Either way, she would have to look after him.

And certainly she would. But not like this. Not while she remained in such a scandalous state of attire. In fact, she wore nothing but her bare skin, merely holding the green gown to her body. Suspiciously, she gazed down at the purportedly evocative dress and over to the man who, garbed in a perfectly matching shade of green, lay on the floor, unmoving. She refused to believe that the gown could be so powerful. Usually it took time for the craft to show its effects. Well, that had worked out just great. How could she have ever reckoned on such an immediate response? Why wearing the green skirt tonight of all nights? There she had gotten herself into a nice mess. 'Now, be sensible,' she reprimanded herself. These occurrences couldn't possibly have anything to do with each other. Admittedly, the man's sudden appearance had made an impact on her, but it didn't exactly appeal to her. No. Certainly, it all had happened for reasons of mere coincidence.

Whatever the case, Helen thought it advisable to get dressed in less meaningful apparel. In any garment, at that. Keeping a respectful distance from the unconscious stranger, Helen tiptoed towards the bed chamber where she quickly slipped into a fresh shift while the new gown went straight back into the trunk and under her bed again.

Helen wasn't very keen on returning. But she knew she had to. Had she gone in Martha's stead, she would be tending to some wounded soldiers by now anyway. She could just as well do the job at her own home. Had she not wished to save a life? A better occasion for that would hardly occur.

Very well then. Helen forced herself out of the bed chamber again. A quick look told her that nothing had changed. The man still lay there, just the way she had left him. However, Helen was diffident about drawing nearer without reserve.

"Sir?" She addressed him warily from the safe distance of several feet. The stranger would not budge. It didn't necessarily mean anything. Perhaps he only feigned unconsciousness to lull her with a feeling of safety. He had not made an exactly trustworthy impression on her so far. If he wasn't cheating, though, he most probably was in urgent need of some aid. Helen approached the motionless body carefully, step by step.

"Sir, can you hear me?" she inquired. No answer. The gun was no longer in his grip. It had dropped from his hand and lay next to him. If he was trying to deceive her, he certainly would have made sure not to lose hold of it. Cautiously, she nudged at one leg and held her breath. Still no reaction. She quickly reached for the weapon and put it out of his reach.

Feeling a bit more secure, Helen ventured to examine him more closely. She kneeled down at his side and reached for his throat to find out whether she could feel any pulse. Indeed, she detected a remote throbbing. A very feeble sign of life, to be precise. Helen withdrew her fingers and found them covered with blood. She was tempted to back from him, but withstood the impulse. He needed her help.

She rashly wiped her fingers at his coat, which already bore quite a few traces of combat. On his left upper arm, she noticed a small hole in the fabric, the edges frayed and partly burned. Apparently a shot had hit him there and perhaps the bullet remained stuck inside his bicep. Helen doubted that this small wound could be the real reason why he was so terribly weakened, but she felt the need to check on it. If the bullet had remained there, it would have to be removed. But to do so, she would have to have a better sight of the entry wound.

With an effort, Helen turned the man on his back and froze with horror. What she had failed to see during her former distress was more obvious than ever. His entire front was a bloody mess. The gore-drenched collar was indeed the result of a heavily bleeding wound at his throat. Also, further down, somewhere close to his navel, a similar injury had been inflicted on him. And bleeding no less, it had left his vest all blood stained. The bullet could wait. Its severity was minor compared to those gapping wounds that spilled further blood with every heart beat.

Valiantly, she fought the welling panic that suggested any attempt to help would come too late. Eager not to waste precious time, Helen got to work. She loosened his cravat and unbuckled the one belt that reached across his torso and a second that girthed his waist. When she came to unbutton his vest, she retched with disgust at the damp fabric that turned out to be downright soggy with blood.

Helen pulled herself together and continued on until the last button was undone so that she could open the vest. Then without further ado she pulled the shirt out of his breeches and pushed it up, far enough to get a picture of the whole extent of the damage.

It was disheartening. Helen grimaced at the thought of how ferociously someone must have rammed a blade in his guts and throat to cause such angry wounds. And why would this not have killed him instantly? How could anyone survive such terrible injuries? Helen impressed herself, imagining what a tough fellow this man must be that he had managed to defy such life-threatening injuries until arriving here.

It was truly incredible that the man still breathed - flatly - but he breathed. And as long as he did, Helen regarded it as her obligation and duty to render him aid. Since there was hardly anything she could do that would make things worse, Helen thought it best to start cleaning his wounds and bandage them as well as possible to, hopefully, still the bleeding. Seeing more than ever the necessity to undress him, Helen started on his coat.

After a few attempts she saw the futility of this. She thought the whole procedure a lot easier than it turned out to be. To just strip his clothes off seemed impossible as unconsciousness made his body weighty as lead. She blushed when it finally struck her as pretty inappropriate to roughly pull and tear at him, helpless as he was. Embarrassed, she ceased her endeavour. As it appeared, there was no way to get his arms out of the tight fitting sleeves of his uniform jacket as long as he lay on his back. How she would ever accomplish this task without help was a riddle to her. Helen sighed.

Perhaps, if she could drag him near a wall, maybe she could fix him in a sitting position. That way, it would probably be easier to peel off his wet and blood soiled attire.

Determinedly, she stepped behind him. She had just reached under his arms and made a first attempt to haul him along, when the stranger suddenly woke from his faint and groaned with pain. Helen shrugged and nearly let him fall as she feared he might strike her in self-defence.

"I am sorry, Sir," she quickly apologized for her rough treatment and let him gently down. Once she had taken her former position next to him, she saw his face distorted by pain. On closer inspection, his flickering eyes told her clearly that she wasn't the only one who was struck with fear.

Being in the far better constitution, Helen composed herself first. "You need not worry, Sir. I am going to help you," she assured him kindly about her good intentions.

Helen couldn't possibly have been any more astonished when she saw the stranger sneer. He shook his head. "You can't help me, I am afraid."

"But I can try." Helen aimed to encourage him and tried to sound confident.

"Don't make me laugh!" he snapped at her irately, which promptly made him end up coughing.

Helen was caught between terror and compassion. Apart from the obvious trouble he had to speak, Helen had not failed to notice the bitter derision in his voice. Nonplused, Helen stared at his face. She did not remember ever looking at such cynical features. Wouldn't one think that, under the given circumstances, he ought to be ready to grasp at any straw? Instead he was rather likely to turn down her offer to help. But why on earth was that? Did he not believe her capable of treating him properly? Or had he abandoned himself to fate already? Helen liked none of those attitudes. However, one thing was true: she could not guarantee that she would indeed be able to do something for him nor did she know whether he still had the strength to make it. Helen came to the conclusion that in the face of his grave situation, he deserved to be treated with some more honesty.

"Well, Sir, I admit you've got some heavy wounds there, but you see, that does not mean that there is no hope…"

"Hope?!" he barked and caught Helen completely off guard with his sudden display of vigor as he desperately attempted to struggle up. "Don't give me that line! I am sick with that unwavering eagerness of you colonials to get past any obstacle. See where it has gotten me: I am done for!" There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes when he suddenly seemed to laugh at her with satisfaction as he continued: "And there is nothing you can do about that!"

For a brief moment Helen was petrified by such a hot-tempered outburst. She felt shocked and insulted and didn't know what to make of it. But then she quickly reasoned that his precarious condition was to blame for the odd behavior and thought it best to ignore his biting remarks, refusing to believe that he truly meant to reject her help.

"Let's find it out." She suggested, trying to pass over his defiance with resolute friendliness.

But the only thing she earned were flashes of hatred that shot from his eyes. Incensed as he was, he made a tremendous effort to straighten up, grabbing Helen's arm with amazing strength. "Go to hell with your confidence and hope!"

Not knowing where she got the nerve from, Helen boldly returned his stare. "This way please!" she retorted and without hesitation helped him struggle to his feet again. "You should feel more comfortable when lying on a bed, don't you think?" Perhaps it was the courage of despair that enabled her to staunchly follow her plan. And while directing him towards the bed chamber, she nimbly helped him out of his coat and vest.

When she placed him on the bed that stood nearest, the both of them where glad to have reached their goal. The stranger repeatedly groaned with pain and Helen panted from the great effort. Lately, there had been a few occasions when she had supported Martha walking and she had always done it with ease, but to guide that man along had been no easy job in comparison. It was all the same now, the shirt still needed to be removed. Unfortunately, the man was already about to fall back and Helen didn't have the strength to hold him upright. Alright then, she decided to make short work of it now, and with one powerful wrench, yanked the shirt asunder. Startled at the sudden noise, the man jerked up and caught unrestricted sight of his abdominal wound. For the first time he looked truly aghast, his eyes wide open with dismay. But weakness quickly got the better of him and he leaned back again.

"Is this at least a good place to die, Miss?" he asked with faltering voice, his eyes despondently fixed on the ceiling.

"A _good_ place to die?" Helen repeated with some consternation. "There's no such place, Sir!" she corrected with the true ring of conviction. "Listen, you're not going die. Not here and not now. Not if I can help it." Helen paused when she realized the irony of the situation. How would he ever have known that she would move heaven and earth, rather than to just sit and watch someone going down the dusty road of death? She cleared her throat and proudly declared: "This is indeed the worst place to ever choose to take one's last breath. If you wish to die, you better get your gear and walk out of this door. But if you choose to stay, you'll have to do your share. For I'm not going to take any trouble, if I don't have your support. Be sure to do what a soldier like you is supposed to do in the first place: Fight! Is that understood?"

He uttered some sounds that she recognized as sarcastic laughter.

"Fight?" it came drudgingly over his lips as he cast her a wry smile. But his irony would not last. Seized by a sudden fit of true earnest, he searched her eyes and turned very sober. With a no-nonsense expression he looked at her and nodded. "Aye!" He croaked the brief reply of a common soldier to confirm bindingly the reception of an order. Then, no longer could he be stopped from falling into the nightmare of his exhaustion.

The weight of his body sank powerlessly into the cushions while his mind fell into a deep darkness. He surrendered his body to the as yet nameless woman, trusting her since he had no other choice. Determined to fight, he concentrated all his power and strength on this one and only bare goodness he still possessed, life, while he fell further into murky, unfathomable depths.

6


	4. Between Heaven and Earth

A/N: I'd like to thank **TavyBeckettFan, GreenWood Elf, Lady of Leitrim** and **Belka** for leaving a review, and **mercywriter** for beta-reading. Each one of you certainly helped to keep me writing. Thanks a lot.

In this chapter I mixed movie plot with book plot. That is namely during the Battle of Cowpens. According to the book, James Wilkins happens to cross the scene when Tavington and Martin are fighting their personal battle and Tavington demands of him to shoot Martin. But Wilkins finally makes up his mind and refuses to obey. So, if you've only watched the movie and should get confused about Tavington's thoughts at some point here, that is why. Thank you.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any character or setting of 'The Patriot'.

You may find some references to the poem "Ein Paar Spuren im Sand"/ "Footprints in the Sand", which is authored by the German-Canadian Margaret Fishback Powers. I should think it's well known, but if you don't happen to be familiar with it and wish to learn more, please, don't hesitate to ask.

**Chapter 4 – Between Heaven and Earth**

"_Fight!…. Fight!…"_ it echoed dully through his mind. William Tavington knew to fight. His entire life he had been fighting, involuntarily and willingly as well. Fate had forged him into an excellent fighter. And even now that he felt his strength unstoppably leaving him, it remained a quality of supreme importance for him. '_Alright, William, do it yet again._' he inwardly impelled himself while his present surrounding, the bustling woman's shape along with the frantic noises she produced, faded out completely, until he found himself back on the battlefield in the heat of the action.

"Kill me before the war is over?" Tavington scoffed at the promise Martin had made at Fort Carolina. "It appears that you are not the better man." He swung back, took precise aim at Martin's neck and attacked. Tavington knew at once it was a fatal move. His saber had cut nothing but thin air. Appalling surprise replaced his arrogance. Sharp pain pierced his stomach.

Unbelievingly, he reached for the source of ache. The irony! An English musket with bayonet affixed stuck to his middle. Martin had driven the point of it into Tavington's stomach and out through his back, leaving his body relentlessly fixed in midair. Tavington opened his mouth, gasping for breath. Not a sound of pain escaped from it.

He'd been wounded several times before and he had learned to put up with the pain for the benefit of success. But this time the sweet sense of achievement failed to appear. This time it would not compensate for the sacrifices made.

'_Impossible! It can't be. I'm bound to win!'_ The agitated voice of his mind screamed with defiance. How was it possible that he had been speared by a colonial peasant? He was a seasoned soldier. He was to take the victory. Vanity forbade him yet to comprehend that he'd just had it. Absurd, ludicrous, degrading to be defeated by someone from the ranks of irregular militia.

"You're right," Tavington heard Martin say, not trusting his eyes when he saw the man laboriously struggling to his feet. "My sons were better men."

Desperately, Tavington sought for rescue, well aware that he wouldn't be able to break free on his own resources. Where was that bloody damn colonial fool of a Captain when one needed him? Why hadn't he shot Martin when the opportunity had been there? Which part of 'Kill him!' had this would-be loyalist possibly not understood? Had James Wilkins just done as ordered, Martin would be down and out by now. Tavington seethed, he wasn't one to excuse failure. Should he ever get hold of his subordinate again, he would make him pay dearly for this piece of disobedience.

Martin picked up a discarded bayonet from a nearby burning patch of grass. The long wanted Ghost stood in front of him, a hurt rancorous man who breathed vengeance, a blood smudged blade in his sturdy hand. That and the cutting pain in his abdomen foiled any hope of escape.

What a strange feeling it was to face death. Everything seemed to happen at an agonizingly slow pace. It was as if Martin deliberately took his time, just to make him taste defeat. Tavington gazed into his opponent's eyes that blazed with unquenched thirst for blood. Tavington couldn't blame him. He'd given him every reason to brood and take revenge. And why would he not? Had their situations been reversed, Tavington knew for sure he wouldn't hesitate to act the exact same way. It seemed the two of them were not so different.

The tip of Martin's blade was at his throat. Every other sentiment was instantly whitewashed by mortal fear. Both of them knew, it wasn't worth the act, Tavington's chances to survive with a dirty bayonet's blade in his guts were infinitely small, but Martin was irrevocably inclined to finish the job. Tavington, for his part, was too proud to beg for mercy, and after all it would have been pointless, embarrassing at best.

So, what was this farmer waiting for? If the delay was meant to grant him the chance to repent of his deeds and speak a last prayer, then it was in vain, there was nothing he had to say. And finally, Martin no longer practiced restraint. In one powerful, swift motion, he stabbed his personal foe to death. When the blade was withdrawn from his throat, Colonel William Tavington, ruthless commander of the Green Dragoons, was vanquished once for all.

Within a split second, everything was gone. Martin, the battlefield, the crackling musketry along with the roars of cannons, the clinging and clashing of swords, the biting smell of black powder, the steely taste of blood in his mouth, even the racking pain in his limbs, all had vanished from his perception.

He had dropped into nothingness.

All he sensed was a strange lightness since everything had lost its importance, the brightness along with the misery. It was as if he had been thrown into a total break from everything he had ever thought to know. There he was, drifting leisurely through absolute barrenness, void of any joy, aversion, hope or fear. He was not even curious to know where his journey would eventually take him. He just accepted to be merging in slumberous infinity.

There was nothing but fathomless blank.

Silence.

It may have been minutes or ages that he was alone with himself, indifferently suspended in the middle of nowhere.

But the bizarre vacuum didn't last. In the beginning, a barely perceptible change was going on, turning the undefined state of suspense gradually into a more floating movement. Like a fallen leaf, he glided on the even surface of a smoothly flowing stream. No doubt it was water, the source of all life, that carried him gently and brought his senses back to him. The agreeable, refreshing wet made him feel the shell of his body again. Then he recognized a weak yet typical scent that had been carried along by a gentle breeze. He could not remember to have ever had a special liking for it, but right now he was perfectly pleased to take in the unmistakable smell of lavender. Rising up his nose, it set his mind to working.

If there were plants to secrete their odor, there must be some soil for them to grow on as well. And right, the next thing he sensed was that the water got more and more shallow. He felt hard cool stones underneath him. The permanent current had caused them to grind and polish each other to smooth and round pebbles that no rough edge would scratch his skin when the tender surge washed him ashore. As much as he had appreciated to be in this state of suspense, it did him well to feel firm ground beneath him again.

While he peacefully lay on the bank, the befuddling fragrance grew more intense. It filled the air with its prevalence, and Tavington couldn't help picturing the stream flowing past luxuriant fields of those silvery green bushes as they stood in their bewitchingly bluish bloom.

The desire to take a look at such beauty was overwhelming. He rose to his feet. And even though still feeling oddly weightless, he found that he could at least tell up from down again. Full of expectation, he opened his eyes and blinked. His gaze had gone into nothing but blurred somberness. Dejected to find himself still caught in yawning emptiness, he sighed. There he stood with sagging shoulders and just felt like slumping back into dull blankness, when suddenly further change was noticeable.

A light ignited far above him. First hardly more than an insignificantly small glow, it turned brighter until its warm rays shone upon him, almost like they meant to comfort him, showing him a way out of the gloom. Feeling invited to take a walk on the lucent path, he stepped into the light and experienced another batch of vigor. Like water and air before had gently nudged his body and had enlivened his soul, the warmth of the light now generously spent its power, enabling him to take a firm stand on the stony ground.

The elements had taken him graciously under their wings.

Attracted by the light, Tavington straightened up and ventured forward, away from the river, leaving the pebbles behind until he reached finer grounds. As he walked on, a strange sensation crept upon him. Out of the corner of his eyes he eventually noticed the oddity. Each time he was about to take another step, it seemed that a mark occurred beneath his feet even before he had actually touched ground.

Tavington stopped in his tracks. Did this possibly mean he was not alone?

He whipped around, prepared to spot a follower. But he couldn't make out any. All he saw was a lonesome pair of footprints in the sand. Tavington frowned. Looking back, he made the strangest of discoveries. While he still wore his boots, the imprints in the sand clearly bore the shape of bare feet.

It was an entirely twisted fact, beyond all common sense. An actuality that couldn't possibly have left him any more astounded. At any other time, Tavington would never have left it at that. Matter-of-fact person that he was, he wouldn't have rested before he had found a reason that explained those strange occurrences. But right now, he let it pass. He knew it was against all logic and probably it should even have scared him. And yet, he couldn't have cared any less, just like a child that was carried in his mother's arms, not minding the barking dogs any longer. Feeling carefree, safe and sound like never before, neither bewilderment nor wits could bother him to look back any longer. However confusing the whole matter was, the urge to follow the light was stronger.

All the more as his attention got agreeably distracted as soon as he was facing forward again.

Small shoots poked up from the ground and tight green buds unfolded into leaf and blossom until a fresh sap green saturated his immediate environs. What an impressing display of life. It occurred to him that he had missed by far too many occasions to marvel at nature's magnificence. Only now he saw that he had failed to taste and savor life in its whole variety. Death had picked him way too early. What did it matter now? All that was left to do was to walk this way to the end.

And so he did. Strange to say, that he did it with true pleasure, excited to see where it finally would take him. Tavington just couldn't take his eyes off the unceasing, splendorous growth around him. If that was what awaited one after death there was no reason to be afraid. He gladly pushed his sorrow over lost chances aside and enjoyed the walk through this arcade of brightness where young tendrils wound about the luminescent walls and grew higher and healthier with every step he took. It was an elevating idea to bring such beauty to life.

After a while, Tavington saw the way leading to a garden, so fruitful and thriving that it had no equal. There was a large gate that began to open its wings from the moment that his gaze had fallen on it, asking him in. As he approached, Tavington saw someone standing in the entrance, obviously waiting for him. A little boy was cheerfully waving, smiling at him. The boy happily gestured him to go on, to go faster, holding out an hour-glass the sands of which had almost run out. As Tavington drew even closer he recognized the person as his younger self.

Tavington smiled back. Suddenly he grew all keen on coming home. There may have been things he hadn't accomplished in his lifetime. Now they would have to remain unsettled. He was much too eager to go to that place where he finally would be welcome. Home. The place where he had always longed to return, at a time when things had been simple, before all trouble had started. The very place where he'd lost his younger self a long, long time ago. Elated by the thought to finally be granted his peace, Tavington quickened his pace.

At least he tried. In fact, he wasn't able to go any faster, wasn't even able to get any closer. Eventually, his constant companion, impatience, took the rein and he started to actually run. To no avail. The goal almost in reach, his efforts didn't suffice to get there. Something held him back. It tore painfully at him. He turned his head to see what hindered him. He started.

All those tender young shoots had developed into massive wooden climbers as thick as a man's arm, eventually forcing thorns. He'd got caught in this network of tendrils, which he had so proudly watched growing. More than ever he wanted to run to get away from all those things that lay behind him. Desperately, he tried to tear himself free, only to become entangled even worse.

Unable to move back or forth, he observed the sands in the hour-glass inevitably growing less and less. The little William, however, kept smiling as if he meant to say: "Don't cease your efforts. You can still make it."

Tavington tugged at the thorny vines that twined round his wrists, tying him painfully as mercilessly down. He sweat. What if the gate closed before…? He did not really dare to think that thought. He fought.

And while he did, the network got more and more close-meshed. New sprouts shot up from the gnarled climbers, putting forth buds over buds. When the first one cracked open, all the others followed suit.

With amazing grace, each one unfolded petal upon petal until they jointly grew to a sea of roses. He was left to the tender mercies of a crimson rambler. Its passionate red blossoms threatened to bar his view of young William and the hour-glass. Feeling that his efforts to break loose were in vain, Tavington was all but tempted to just give in and stay with the roses.

But their beauty was guileful. It was in the nature of roses to attract people's attention and make them forget about the thorns. And so, it wasn't for long that Tavington had riveted his eyes on one of these exquisite flowers when it gave rise to exquisite pain.

All of a sudden the rose changed its appearance, and a face emerged from the blossom. Tavington was greatly taken aback. He had forgotten about this face, indeed. Utter terror flashed through him once he recognized it.

"Mary?" He asked insecurely as his memory underwent an appallingly quick refreshment. "What are you doing here?"

"You've murdered me, William."

"No," Tavington denied the accusation right away. He shook his head. "I haven't." He remembered Mary as a woman of sorts. Admittedly, when he'd once called on her services, he'd treated her none too gently. But he had not murdered her. Or had he?

That evening in London, he'd been in sour need of venting his frustration when the lady of his choice had met his tenacious courting with a flat refusal. His male pride had been experiencing some wicked problems with the digestion of the non-event, when Mary had happened to cross his way. She was one of those unlucky girls who could not afford to turn a client down and so, despite his surly mood she had accepted his request. There was no glossing over it; he had loved her up and he had roughed her up. And when he'd had his fill of her he'd left her to herself without so much as settling the bill, never caring to inquire after her whereabouts or welfare.

"Yes, you have." Mary insisted, her voice had a ring to it that left not the shadow of a doubt that she was speaking the truth.

"Oh, Mary" Tavington uttered embarrassed. His younger self half-way in sight, he suddenly turned terribly ill at ease. "It wasn't my intent."

"Murderer!" another voice yelled at him as another face had mutated from one of the roses. It belonged to a man who accused him on his own behalf, a certain Charles who had demanded satisfaction and had challenged him to fight a duel.

Again, Tavington shook his head. "No," he said and searched for excuses. "You perfectly knew it was you or me, Charles."

"Murderer, I say," persisted the man who was the first person Tavington had ever knowingly killed.

Many more faces followed, raising a hue and cry. A deplorable story lay behind each rose, a continuous list of names, all telling of the destruction and devastation Tavington had left in his wake.

"Murderer!"

"Butcher!" It sounded from everywhere.

On first impulse, Tavington rather pretended to ignore them. How dared they? Who were they to denounce him? They surely had their own slips to be concerned with. What did they know about his past, about his whole being that they dared to judge him? He certainly hadn't been born all bad in this world. Was not his younger self, who had already passed the garden's threshold, just evidence enough of that? Why did they refuse to take a look at the bigger picture?

There was a reason why he had become that man they only knew and feared as the butcher. It was thanks to his father that he had turned so keen on retrieving some recognition. Recognition he should have gotten from him. He'd sought to restore some esteem to his family, which his father had so carelessly squandered. The resulting lack of social appreciation had caused a deep cut to his ego, a wound that had kept festering, never granting him the sweet feeling of being welcome. All his life he'd worked so hard for it. Wasn't it an honorable aim to strive for some justice on his own behalf? If he had done wrong, he wasn't the only one. Others had failed him before. Why were they blind to that? What did they want of him?

Tavington had never earnestly reckoned on being called to account one day. He squeezed his eyes shut, not really daring to face the wrong that had arisen through his own fault. In his lifetime, he'd successfully coaxed himself into believing that he was only answerable to himself; that it would suffice if his doing corresponded with his own creed and view. And of course, his actions had always been nicely consistent with his conscience as he'd always found a way to justify things until they fit his purposes. What a delusive idea. Just as delusive as the thought that he would staunchly suffer hell, on the off-chance that there existed one.

Now he saw that this was more than he could take. More than ever he wanted to break free, tugging even harder at these living fetters, which he himself had caused to grow. The responding pain, though, was unbearable. He'd sown too much and now the harvest threatened to weigh him down. The thorns pierced his skin and the vines grew tighter around him, painfully strangulating his limbs. And yet, it was nothing compared to what he felt inside.

Deep down, there was still a tiny grain of nobility left in him, a remote notion of honor that no longer allowed him to lean back and gladly forget about all grievances or injustice. It was, in fact, this last and almost forgotten small grain of morality that gave rise to considerable pricks. Pricks that stung far worse than any thorn, demanding that he actually respond for what he had done. He owed it to young William; he could not answer for him to end up like that. Whatever his father had done to him, it was of no consequence here in view of what he had done to others. He needed to face those who he'd trespassed against.

'_Fight for yourself, William. Get to it. Face them,'_ Tavington impelled himself and finally opened his eyes.

Sure enough, the billow of impeachment was still rolling, eventually tumbling down on him with unbroken might. Tavington gasped when he saw the next appallingly familiar face waiting on him.

"Thomas…" Tavington whispered incredulously. It was discomforting to suddenly know them all by their Christian names.

"Remember me? Hm?" Thomas cocked his eye at him.

Yes, Tavington remembered him. On that farm. That intrepid young boy who had so determinedly yet naïvely tried to save his brother's life.

"You shouldn't have run, boy, you know."

"And you shouldn't have held my brother," Thomas retorted, his voice dripping with reproach. "It does me well to see that father has finally made you pay for killing me in such a treacherous way."

"I was doing my duty. How else was I supposed to deal with someone who undermined my authority? We were at war and you purposely disobeyed my order. I had to react."

"You perfidiously shot me in the back!" Thomas yelled at him. At the same time one of the smaller tendrils made for Tavington's upper arm wound, painfully pressing into it. When it withdrew again, it had retrieved the bullet, holding it out to Thomas. The boy examined the uneven projectile with satisfaction, recognizing it as one of his former toy soldiers. "Well done, father."

Tavington opened his mouth, wanted to say something in return, but only yelped as the bullet was sharply forced back into the raw flesh.

"Well, well! What a dutiful British soldier we have here." Another mordant voice made itself heard, granting Tavington no reprieve. Gabriel. "Always intent on serving King and Country, not even minding to settle the ugly business, weren't you?"

Tavington looked him in the eye and was at a loss for what to say.

"You killed me by deceit," Gabriel went on. "You pretended to be done for and unscrupulously stabbed me when I was most defenseless."

"Defenseless?" Tavington repeated in return. "You, yourself, were about to stab me, remember? I was merely acting in self-defense." It was a puny attempt to qualify the severity of the accusation. Only too well did he know that it was just half the truth as he had cold-heartedly let Gabriel run into the open blade.

And once again the tendrils reached for him, this time ferociously penetrating into the stab wound on his abdomen, causing him to howl in agony. It was insane, he was dead and yet they made him die again and again. There were so many roses left who hadn't yet charged him. How would he ever stand that?

Regardless of his constitution the trial continued when another two roses revealed their true identity.

"Tell me, Colonel…," a woman addressed him now, whose bright red locks framed her neatly rounded face, "…how self-defensive could it possibly have been to murder two unarmed civilians who were just attending to their daily tasks?" Next to her, the freckle splashed face of a little boy with the same curly red hair appeared.

"Jane? Matthew? I…," Tavington was stuck for an explanation. No doubt, their ways had crossed on that humble farm near the Santee River. She had been about to hang out the laundry to dry while the boy had been playing with his toy gun, just when he and his men had arrived there, seeking to raid those who Wilkins had put on a list, not willing to grant any mercy.

"Or was it your damn duty that demanded of you to kill my son and me? Strange to say, though, that you gave no orders we might have refused to obey nor did we even have the time to run when you rode up in our yard and shot us right away."

Anxious about further torture and struck with embarrassment, Tavington remained mute. Nonetheless, he felt another twine creeping round his left ankle, tying him firmly down as if to make sure that he, too, had no chance to run. He did not intend to, yet the snare kept growing relentlessly tighter, the leather of his boot proving no shield at all.

Tavington looked mother and son in the eyes, unable to come up with any further excuse. He had to admit it: Their deaths had been for reasons of mere provocation. They'd never had a chance.

Finally he started to understand. This was no longer a time to argue, this was his time to do penance. He fought down the lump in his throat as he felt compelled to say something.

"I'm sorry," he uttered insecurely in no distinct direction.

"Like hell you are!" Gabriel raged at him, while his as everyone else's expression remained bare of any sign of forgiveness.

Tavington hadn't felt so unselfconfident in a long while. He wasn't very versed with begging someone's pardon. He felt his spine, which once had been straight like a ramrod, bending down with grief and shame, making him want to curl up like a beaten dog, hadn't it been for the thorny vines that fixed him relentlessly exposed to his prosecutors.

What he had never thought possible came down on him at one blow: he felt guilty. Guilty of all charges. All his keenness had done nothing to make him understand the rules of the game. Cleverness and enthusiasm had not helped to see which way the cat really jumped. Every single step he'd ever taken to advance himself had only been a step back, away from everything he'd ever wanted to get near. Why had he never seen this before? All his struggling for some recognition had gotten him nowhere. What had happened to him? Why was it that he had admitted to give the world such a horrible impression of him? How could he ever have allowed that? There was very little he had to put against all accusations.

He wanted so badly to apologize, even though there was little hope one would ever let him. How could he seriously expect to be forgiven such heinous deeds? His remorse was immeasurable. He felt the yet unknown, strong desire to ask forgiveness, dearly wishing he could make things undone. What nagged at him the most was the knowledge that he'd once possessed a sense of righteousness and decency. He'd always had it in him; at any time he could have chosen to act differently, but he had preferred to work on his glory. He'd been eager, ambitious - too ambitious. He'd overshot the mark. Now he had to stand for it.

Tavington may not always have paid overly much attention to people when he killed them, but now he remembered each of them with appalling clarity and how they had fallen victim to senseless murder by his hand, alone. Not one had been justified. He was abashed by the huge number of casualties for which he was to blame. No longer was he oblivious, indifferent, triumphant, satisfied or contemptuous of their forced and therefore all too early decease.

He felt ashamed in the face of the young, decent William who witnessed everything from a distance. Truly abased, Tavington averted his face.

What he saw there pushed his mind to the edge of madness. While his body remained helplessly with the roses and their thorns, the pair of footprints he had considered his own made themselves independent. They walked straight to the garden's entry where, to his utter dismay, Tavington saw the wings of the gate starting to close again.

"No, please don't!" Tavington shouted, but his voice resembled just a faint whisper compared to the raving roses. The pair of footprints neither turned nor did they stop. Whom ever they belonged to was apparently not inclined to take him along. "Don't leave me here!"

Pleadingly, he reached out for little William who still held his gaze, but did nothing to pull him ashore, out of the slough of fault, violence and pain, back to where life had been innocent and good.

"Please, let me try again. Just give me a chance. I'm not evil! I can do better!"

The footprints of the invisible owner had reached the garden. Little William stepped aside and bowed obediently to the one who entered. The young William obviously knew his place and, strangely, Tavington would just have loved to reverse the roles as he saw the boy keeping his devout bearing while he attentively listened and nodded unquestioningly to whatever he was being told. He possessed so much more dignity than the veteran colonel. The boy's expression had saddened when he faced Tavington again. However much he seemed to regret the instruction, the boy chose to stick with his order. He gave Tavington an apologetic shrug of his shoulder and shook his head. Then, he turned the hour-glass upside down, causing the sand grains to fall down again.

"NO!" Tavington howled, his outstretched hand trembling helplessly, craving to be taken. But it remained empty. And Tavington knew he wouldn't reach the gate. Not today.

Would he ever? Or had he just been condemned to suffer in hell from now to eternity? But why had his younger self been told to turn the hour-glass? Had he been sentenced to pass another lifetime in the clutches of the crimson rambler, confronted with his sins? Was that the sentence he had to serve before he could await to be reunited with the part of his personality, which he sadly had lost so many years ago?

He wistfully gazed over to the closing gate, catching a last glimpse of his younger self who had receded into a dim distance, before the entrance finally shut.

Never had Tavington felt any more scared as now that he found himself so demonstrably left out in the cold. He desperately clung his last and only hope to the hour-glass. The hour-glass had been turned. That meant it wasn't over yet. There was still something to be done. And nobody else could do it in his stead. He needed to stay prepared for whatever was to come.

If there _was_ anything to come. Was he reading things right? If his time wasn't up yet, if he had in fact been granted a respite, he didn't yet quite understand what he was supposed to do. If this was a second chance, he didn't know how to seize it. The massive building of thorns and roses would certainly not allow him to ever find his way back to life. But he wished for this second chance so badly. He knew he could do it better. He would do anything to show them, if only he could.


	5. Expelled

A/N: Hello again. Thank you **Belka, Lady of Leitrim, TavyBeckettFan** and **GreenWoodElf** for leaving these encouraging reviews. I have not abandoned this story. I worked really hard on it. On that occasion, I'd also like to thank **Charli800** for enabling me to update again. I know, it's been a long while, yet I truly hope, there is still someone out there who remembers this story or is willing to give it a chance. Thank you.

Disclaimer: I don't own any character or setting of 'The Patriot'.

Chapter 5 – **Expelled**

With the closing of the gate the soothing scent of lavender had gone as well.

Almost instantly, it had been replaced by a sharp, aromatic one. In the face of all the nasty goings-on, this new scent was surprisingly heartening. It suggested such a warm and protective note that Tavington couldn't help but take a deep breath of it. He could do with everything that helped to bolster his courage and so he breathed in anew, not minding that he couldn't really tell of what it reminded him in particular, this powerful odor, sharp and yet sweet in its undertone.

That was until it started to itch and tickle in his nose. Tavington felt like he'd just snuffed up a finely ground pinch of pepper and could by no means stop himself from sneezing heartily. Whatever it was, Tavington wasn't granted the time to squander a second thought on all of this. The vehemence of his reaction had given rise to new trouble. Mighty trouble.

A whirlwind had emerged from nowhere.

Barely rallied from the jolt, Tavington was surrounded by the quickly twirling stream of air. An infernal noise broke out when the whirlwind fell upon the tangle of vines, incessantly setting about the twines to make them unsnarl. It was disquieting to see the great number of leaves and petals that were irretrievably dragged along with the vortex.

And yet, to his utter surprise, Tavington felt secure in the center of this whirlwind, as it made no attempt to attack _him_. Far from it, the wind used its power to knock away all the ties that tried so hard to keep him captive. Finally he was separated from the thorns and their faces.

The twine around his ankle was more obstinate than all others. Tavington tried to slip off his boot to get rid of this hurtfully tightening tie. But it wasn't in his power to do anything. There was nothing he might have grabbed at to set a counteraction. All action was incumbent on the wind that kept on steadily forcing its speed. The snare, however, remained completely unaffected by that. It continued to pull tighter with unremitting force. Tavington felt his skin splitting, ligaments tearing and the ankle swelling. Only then did the loop slide off and let him go.

But where in all the world was he going? Once freed from his last fetter, Tavington had started to fall into abysmal depths. And to make his rapid descent even worse, this one piece of twine had held him just a thought too long, making him now fall head first towards uncertainty. Was this the way to hell? Everything had been reversed. Not long ago, he'd walked on a broad way of light, now he was tumbling down in what resembled a dark shaft. The spinning walls immuring him were narrow, dull and impenetrable.

At the far end he imagined a vague light, but he wasn't sure if he really wanted to go there. Perhaps it would have been better to stay. Alas, he had had no choice. The process was irreversible. Tavington lacked both, the power and the space to turn around. Unquestioningly, he had to go along with the maelstrom. It was a horrific ride through that one-way channel. The driving force was much too strong to be defied. Being expelled was incredibly hurtful. He was entirely helpless against this uncanny power that forced him in that one direction. There was no holding any more. The twisting walls became increasingly narrow; producing such a strong pressure on him that it very nearly squeezed his juices out of him.

And then it was done. He was painfully pushed past the small opening at the end of the way and plunged headlong into blazing light.

His chest burned as he took in a lungful of air as if he'd never breathed before. His head reeled as the oxygen rushed through his body. Still blinded by the light and pretty bushed from the travails, he didn't yet realize where exactly it had taken him. Wherever he was, he'd definitely escaped from the between world. His subconscious confirmed to be a lot more familiar with everything again. The memory of what he had just passed through fainted like a dream in the morning hours. When he awoke to the first raindrops falling down on him, he had forgotten about all those occurrences completely.

Eventually, Tavington was seized with a horrid pain in his abdomen. He found himself lying with his back on the muddy, saturated earth of the battlefield, gazing at a torn, gray sky from which the rain fell down on him. Ice-cold raindrops hit his face like pinpricks. He raised his arm to shield his face, but the moment he moved his left upper arm burned like hell.

Tavington groaned and cursed. He was alive; that much was certain.

Frankly speaking, he had not reckoned on ever opening his eyes again when the Ghost had driven the last breath out of him, leaving him gruesomely speared on a musket. By now it was gone. Someone must have removed it - perhaps someone who'd needed a weapon and had regarded him already as done for. He wondered how much time might have passed since then. He watched the stormy clouds chasing after one another and felt an awkward cold creeping into him from the clammy clothes on his skin as he lay amidst the casualties the battle had claimed.

He, however, wasn't dead. Not quite. With pain, he turned his head to get an idea what was going on.

Propped on his right arm, he gazed around. There were no longer sounds of skirmish, just as there were frighteningly few signs of life around him. What had happened? One of the last things he remembered was a rebel flag being waved victoriously through the air. Had the British in fact been forced to retreat? And if so, how long ago was that? Could he still hope for anyone to turn up in order to pick him and take him to a doctor? Or had they already taken their wounded along?

Could they possibly have overlooked him? Terrible idea. Tavington swallowed. Had they searched for him at all? The thought sat even worse with him. Distressed, he let his gaze run over the deserted battlefield. The fact that he found himself surrounded only by dead soldiers, made him assume that the gleaning must already have been settled.

Tavington froze. He'd often witnessed the doctors deciding a soldier's fate. They gave a quick examination and only gave permission to select the cases that they considered curable. All the others remained where they were. Seated on horseback, he had never found fail with this method. Better to help those who would probably make it than to waste precious medicine on hopeless cases. It had never come to his mind that he himself might ever be in such unfavorable situation.

Now he knew better. They had saved what they'd considered worth being saved. The bayonet was gone; he had been left behind. They'd sorted the wounded from the doomed and the dead and no one would come for his rescue any more. He wished they had at least shot him. Maybe they had considered him dead already. Morons, all together!

'_Bordon!'_ an urgent inner voice demanded. Tavington was surprised himself, as the thought of his second in command had occurred to him all of a sudden. Bordon certainly would have looked out for him. Beyond all doubt, he had been the most faithful and able person in his company. Tavington could have relied on his unquestioning loyalty in practically every situation. But Bordon was dead. Assassinated by those rebels when they'd assaulted them so unexpectedly early in the morning. Surely, Tavington had meant to challenge them, had wanted to lure them out of their damn hideouts. But when they'd eventually struck, he hadn't been prepared. None of them had. Finally, it had been Bordon who'd sensed and warned them of the impending danger. It had been a last good service he'd rendered him.

Heartfelt pity took hold of Tavington. Had he ever actually told him how much he'd appreciated his proficiency, always discreet and loyal? No. He'd sort of taken it for granted. Now he saw that it wasn't. He missed him. Bitterly. He'd lost an esteemed confidant. A friend? Not exactly, but if he'd given it a chance, Bordon certainly would have been one. Instead, Tavington had kept him just as short as Cornwallis had kept him. He had known how it felt not to be treated with due respect for his merits and yet he hadn't known better than to follow the prevailing practice of snobbish disregard for anyone who was lower in rank. Tavington had to admit it: he'd been just as sparse of lading out praise as his superiors had been. In fact, he'd never actually done so. Though he wished he had. In silent remembrance, Tavington nodded his approval to the imaginary figure of his right-hand man.

But soon enough his own imminent physical needs stopped him from grieving any longer over past neglects. The wintry cold kept sneaking through him. Invading his limbs, it even threatened to exceed the pain in his abdomen. An agonizing, strength-consuming battle ragged in his body. Tavington felt greatly tempted to just slump back and surrender. But his mind instructed him otherwise.

What if the Colonials happened to return? If they found him not yet dead, they would surely not hesitate to correct that mistake. He had to make sure he was out of danger. He couldn't possibly survive so badly wounded, only to die a disgraceful death. Tavington realized that by now he would be on the casualty list of the British. Whatever the statistics said of him, he was still alive. Thus, he alone was in charge of his further welfare.

Despite his badly aching sores, he readied himself to stand up. It had never been his nature just to sit and wait. And even now, there still was that unbreakable energy within him that left him no other choice than move. It was a most painful endeavor to struggle to his feet. But he simply had to get up and see how far he would get.

It was easier said than done. There was no way for him to just leap up. Slowly, Tavington sat up straight as well as possible and concentrated on his breaths to fight down the giddiness in his head. In, out. In, out. Calm and regular. Tavington felt his heart hammering madly in his chest. But eventually the frequency slowed down, thanks to his disciplined breathing. He ventured forward and tried to stand up.

It was pure torture. Fierce pain shot through his body with every motion he made. It almost took his breath away when he made the first step. His left foot turned out to be so terribly affected that he could hardly stand on it. When and how this had come to pass, he couldn't remember. Perhaps he'd sprained his foot when he'd fallen off his horse. His horse. It couldn't be very far. A small hope welled up in him that his brave and trusty mare had been just as tenacious of life as her master.

His optimism was shattered, though, when he found the dead body of his fine mount lying in its own blood, cruelly impaled by a flagpole. He certainly hadn't wished for the animal to end up that way, but right now he couldn't afford to lose himself in sentimentalities. He searched for his gun, which he knew had remained at the saddle. He hadn't had the chance to make use of it during battle, and there should be a shot left in the barrel. Soon enough he got hold of it. Alas, it had already got its share of rain and was unserviceable for the moment. Nonetheless, Tavington decided to take it along, just in case. He patted the horse's dead body a last time before he resumed his own withdrawal from the battleground.

It was a most pitiable kind of retreat. He staggered and limped more than he walked. It required an immense amount of strength and self-discipline to struggle up whenever he fell. And his falls were numerous. After what felt like a mile of moving, he turned around and gazed back, only to find that he hadn't managed more than roughly a hundred yards. If he had had the power left, he might have sneered at such blatantly false estimation.

'_There's no point in looking back. Go on, William,'_ he goaded himself on.

Eventually he reached a nearby grove. With a lack of any proper orientation, he didn't know whether it was closer to the Colonial or the British encampment, and frankly at the moment he didn't really care. What counted was that the coppice would shield him from direct view.

'_Done!'_ He gasped when he'd broken through the thick edge of the forest. For the time being he was out of sight. Very well. But he knew he couldn't rest. The cold demanded that he keep in movement just as his wounds demanded tending. The continuous loss of blood threatened to devour his strength. Tavington forced himself to go on. He struggled hard for every inch of progress. The vicious pain in his ankle became worse with every step he took and competed with the awful sting in his abdomen. In a weak moment, Tavington debated sitting down and taking off the boot to examine the actual damage. Probably he would be able to splint the ankle and stabilize the foot. Ultimately, though, he refrained from it. Practice had taught him that there was a fair chance he might never get back into his boot again once it was off. And to walk on bare-footed was the last thing he wished to do. All the more as he felt the dank cold creeping upon his heated skin.

'_Forward, William, just forward!'_

The bleak forest was lurid. Chilly gusts ran through the twigs, making them shake with ghastly elegance. Behind each groaning movement of the black branches Tavington suspected the enemy on the lurk. Repeatedly, the pointed tips of the bare branches happened to graze his face and scratch his skin. With no regard for Tavington's predicament, the rain had grown more intense, proving the sparsely leafed treetops of January's forest a leaky roof.

Tavington had a hard time advancing through the thicket. He clumsily stumbled over roots and got entangled with the lower branches again and again. His moist clothes clung heavily on him, no longer shielding him from the cold. He grit his teeth to prevent them from chattering. And still he sweat. It was a continuous up and down of body heat. At one moment he froze down to the core and cursed the cold shower from above. Then he welcomed the rain as it made his inner heat bearable. But only the next moment he sweat to no end despite all coldness around. Eventually, Tavington removed his finely tanned leather gloves and put his palms against his forehead, partly to cool his head, partly to warm his fingers.

Damn it! He knew that this was a most evil mix. Away, just away from here! He wanted to fasten his pace, but his legs refused to obey. Regardless of the infernal heat inside, his limbs were stiff with cold, allowing him to move only slowly. Soon, his lungs and limbs burned with the exertion. Not least, the ache in his stomach impaired his advance considerably. Finally, he needed to pause and leaned against a trunk, attempting to regain some strength by checking his breaths again. In, out. In, out. In, out…

Crack!

A dead branch was crushed underfoot somewhere near him in the brushwood. Tavington froze. What now? He held his breath. Had he been discovered? Would all his efforts have been in vain? His heartbeat raced and his breath ran beyond any control. Terrified, he stared into the dark. Someone was clearly approaching him. Tavington clasped his fingers around the trigger of his gun, ignoring its momentary malfunction. Suddenly, in one swift motion, somebody jumped at him. Tavington took a chance and fired. To no avail. The damp black powder had proven ineffective still.

Tavington's hair stood on end as he now faced the unscathed attacker. Scared to the core, Tavington returned the stare out of a pair of shining green eyes. They belonged to a furry something that menacingly spat and arched as it imposingly revealed its feline shape, only to retreat just as quickly as it had appeared.

A cat! Tavington gasped. _'Just a cat, William, nothing else. Just a stray cat.'_ A black cat, however. It couldn't possibly mean anything, could it? No. He wasn't superstitious. Only horrified! _'Don't make a fuss!' _He told himself to be reasonable_. 'It was nothing. Just forget it. Keep moving by all means!' _

If there had been anything good in that nerve-racking incident, then it was that now he knew at least where he _didn't _wish to go. The cat had disappeared somewhere over there in the forest gloom, hence he would take further refuge in the opposite direction. Weak with strain, he endeavored to go on. Advancing on shaky legs, he felt like he was caught in a nightmare he once had dreamed, but couldn't remember its outcome. Delusion and reality mingled with each other as he reeled through the woods. And finally he imagined the bare and bony branches held out for him.

Contrary to all reason, the black cat still in mind, Tavington now truly believed that the woods must be cursed. Help! Those skeletal, hand-like twigs and branches reached for him. They clawed at his jacket and breeches, tearing and pulling at them roughly, stripping him to the skin. Staunchly, he fought his way through their lines. It was like running the gauntlet. With malicious precision the branches proceeded to reach for his wounds. But Tavington wouldn't give up. With clenched teeth, he took the offensive. Randomly yet violently, he struck at them, grimly determined to fight off any obstacle as long as he could. Alas, being in the woods the branches were superior in number, of course. They persistently kept returning exactly to his manifold injuries: His throat, his arm, his ankle. But when they concentrated on tackling his abdominal wound, pain turned beyond all bearing. Ferociously, he grabbed at the twigs, no longer paying heed to their probable haunted origin.

No doubt they were hexed, as they started to fight off his grip with unexpected vehemence. But he refused to let them go and clasped them even harder. It was a fierce struggle, which in the long run he feared to lose. Eventually he tripped and fell, coming to rest in a most unfavorable supine position, leaving him helplessly at the twigs' mercy.

In wild panic Tavington opened his eyes wide - and saw a women bending over him. He glared at her in utter bewilderment. Where had she come from? Was she friend? Was she enemy? It took him a moment to recognize her. It was the woman from that little farmhouse. Also, he came to see that he hadn't slipped on mossy forest ground. To his amazement, he found himself lying on a bed.

Thank Goodness! He had escaped the woods. All the stumbling and crawling had an end. No longer would he have to drag himself along, yard by yard through the coppice. He had arrived somewhere. And apparently he was well looked after. He breathed a little easier. Still, not quite sure whether he could take the risk of fully relying on her, Tavington kept her wrist firmly seized.

"Stop it for heaven's sake!" she told him, obviously terrified herself, and eventually managed to yank her hand free.


	6. Fever

A/N: A big hug to **Belka, Lady of Leitrim** and **Kristen143.** I totally appreciate your enthusiastic valuation of this story. :) Great story, eh? Supposing you're right, the world seems not quite ready for it, though. :/ Lol! Alright then, let's have this be our secret little pleasure for the time being. Further thanks goes to **Charli** and **Jim** who helped me through this chapter in general and the fighting scene in particular.

Disclaimer: I don't own any character or settings from 'The Patriot' or 'Dragonheart'. Yes, Dragonheart. ;) You may notice a reference to a certain 'Lord Felton' here. If you do, be sure to think that it didn't happen at random. Any similarity is in fact intentional and sadly not mine.

**Chapter 6 - Fever**

Helen's heart raced. She was stunned at his sudden awakening. She hadn't been prepared to be caught in such a hurtful grip. Not to mention the blood-curdling chills down her spine the menacing glare out of these cold blue eyes caused.

The silent yet distinct message of the stranger's piercing stare had thoroughly gotten to her. He clearly was a man who was not to be trifled with. Even now that she had broken his hold, Helen saw his eyes flashing in readiness for combat. He definitely was a fighter. Although near to death, his reflexes were still vigorous enough to daunt her. She rubbed her wrist. His grasp had been appallingly firm. That man was strong, dreadfully strong.

Helen shivered. Although helplessly dependent on her mercy, he still had the power of commanding her due respect by his forceful display of impetuosity. Maybe it would be helpful to set his mind at rest.

Helen took a deep breath to clear away a good deal of tension, before she was able to turn to the stranger anew.

"Easy does it. Calm down, sir," she began in the most confident manner she could manage, hoping to bring some soothing influence to bear on him. "I know, I asked you to fight and you're doing great, really" she confirmed him. "But, please, make sure not to fight me. I'm merely trying to help."

Helen had been about to clean that awful abdominal wound with a strong alcoholic essence when he'd woken from his faint so abruptly. She could imagine well that it had hurt him. Very well, at least it told her that there were still some senses working within him.

During the entire time that she'd tended to his other wounds, he had barely given any sign of life. Neither extracting the bullet from his bicep nor cleaning and bandaging his throat had drawn the slightest reaction from him. He had not even winced or groaned when she'd removed his boots.

If he had, though, Helen might have been warned of what she was to discover.

So, it took her breath away when she saw the badly bruised and bleeding ankle or what was still identifiable as such. The whole area around the joint had swollen to a disproportional, bloodshot bulge. Helen grimaced and drew in a sharp breath as she imagined the horrible pain it must have given him as long as he had been conscious. How this man had been able to walk at all, was incomprehensible to her.

In the face of those severe wounds, each of which was grave enough to put any man lastingly out of action, Helen had already feared the uselessness of her efforts until the stranger had grabbed at her wrist.

Helen guessed she could be thankful that he had been lost in a swoon, now that she'd learned about the forcefulness of his actions when coming to consciousness again. However, along with his senses Helen observed something else returning to him. His face was marked with pain, proving him no more than human. Indeed, he suffered. Badly.

"I'm very sorry, if I hurt you. I'm afraid, at some point it's just not avoidable, but you may rest assured that no further harm will be done to you. Just relax."

Tavington panted rapidly as the woman talked to him. How did she ever think he could relax, afflicted with such awful pain as he was? She'd better not kid him. But he refrained from reproving her. He simply lacked the strength. He only gave a tormented moan when she began to shake before his eyes.

"Don't go away," he croaked, unable to steady his eyes on her. The woman seemed to rotate in ever-faster growing circles around him. Again, he tried to catch hold of her. "You mustn't go away! Stay! Stay with me!" he commanded with ragged voice and haunted eyes as he desperately reached out for her.

Helen was scared of his demandingly outstretched hand. On first impulse, she

took painful care to avoid it. His fingers were crooked and stiff, resembling a wild animal's claw rather than a human hand. But when it began to shake and tremble piteously, Helen couldn't but take compassion on him. She overcame her anxiety and seized his hand with firm yet gentle pressure. "Don't bother to speak, Sir." she hushed. "At least not for the time being. Your injuries need rest. I won't leave you. I'll be there whenever you need me."

_Don't bother to speak._ She didn't need to tell him twice. His tongue almost stuck to the roof of his dry mouth. He should be glad to avoid talking and just nodded weakly when a spoon was pushed between his lips and what seemed to be some kind of liquor ran over his tongue. Tavington had a hard time swallowing. Discontent flared up immediately. He had not asked for something to drink. Why would he ever be glad? He'd better be on the alert. The woman appeared quite ready to help, alright, but he knew practically nothing of her. What had she just administered to him? Could he truly risk giving himself over to her? Her voice had been calm and kind, indicating that her concern for him was upright. But should he rely on her word alone? How could he ever be sure that she was indeed as good as her word? He knew from experience that words were quickly given and even more quickly broken. He had no reason to trust her. No. There was precious little indication to believe himself safe. But what other choice did he have?

Torn between confidence and concern, his troubled mind was at the very verge of panic. But, strange to say, it was the woman, indeed, easing him by her mere presence, who successfully kept him from crossing that line. There was something about her that had the power to lull him. Her hand was soft and warm, her grip agreeably steady and firm. At that minimum of trust, he decided to yield himself to her care and let his weakness get the better of him again. So, he sagged into the sheets, while his mind fell back into restless, torturous unconsciousness.

It was unearthly hot. Muggy. Too warm to sleep. Oh, how he wished he would finally nod off. He was too tired to stay awake any longer. But, obviously, sleep didn't want to have him. No matter how hard he tried, he wasn't given permission to enter sleep's sweet realm. With every refusal, his exhaustion increased, if that was at all possible. If he wasn't allowed to rest, he wished to die rather than to have this agonizing weariness and confusion going on. He might go mad with all the irrational events that took place in his harassed mind.

Oppressing heat lay over the country. Cornwallis had entrusted him with the supervision of the wheat harvest. Not the brightest of duties exactly, but he was grimly determined to succeed. A genius mind of a general, Cornwallis had quickly seen the true talents that slumbered in him. He had taken utter pride in being the beneficiary of General Cornwallis' good graces. Finally he was granted the recognition he deserved. Freshly promoted to the rank of a colonel, he was in charge of a bunch of vassals who were busy in the fields. Under no circumstances did he wish to prove Cornwallis wrong. The sweltering heat became worse with every breath. He wiped his sweaty forehead. A thunderstorm was in the air, no doubt. The tension was palpable. They were running short of time.

"To work with you, scum!" He ordered from horseback, spurred by the sting of dogged ambition. No one dared to rebel against his harsh command and the frequency of sickle cuts increased obediently. Regardless of the people's efforts, he continued to goad them on. "If King George's wheat isn't cut before the rain, I'll do a little cutting of my own!"

Of course, everybody knew it wasn't the closing rain that pressed on him. And he knew that they knew it. There was that man they had named the Ghost who impaired his smooth advancement immensely. Instead of joining his kind in harvesting, that man ventured with annoying continuity and cheek to cross his way and plans. Much to his displeasure, he hadn't yet managed to get hold of him, hadn't yet managed to foresee and thwart any attack. Only heaven knew when and how he would strike next only to make a fool of him again.

Impatiently, he observed the nervous bustle on the field. Better to get this over with before the Ghost had the chance to appear. If necessary by force. He was desperate to present a pleasing result at the end of the day by any means. To lend weight to his threat, he drew his blade and made for a dash through the fields. He smirked, a menacing glint in his eyes. Violence was such a marvellous motivator.

"Easy does it, Colonel! I don't think there is a need for this."

His stomach cramped with aversion when he heard the voice of Cornwallis' first lackey. General O'Hara, all but grudging him his quick advance, was the other plague on his way up. With utter reluctance, he curbed his irritation, pulled the reins and sheathed his sword.

"Is there not?" he asked with sham courtesy. Under his breath, he cursed the general for meddling in his business yet another time.

"I'm sure these people know their stuff and will work a lot better without paralysing fear in their neck," O'Hara said.

"They're just farmers with pitchforks," he countered, fairly unnerved. "You see, General, without a certain amount of pressure they most probably won't work at all."

"These peasants are our brethren." O'Hara insisted. "If you harm any one of them, I'll have you put in irons." The deep furrow that had built between his brows and now stood out, highly discordant with his otherwise almost boyishly smooth features, left no doubt that he really meant it.

"I was just saying that anyone of us is worth a hundred of them." He cast his superior a mellifluous smile, well knowing that O'Hara's idea of brotherliness would most definitely not go so far as to earnestly lower himself onto a level with the ordinary folk. He knew he had hit home when he saw the general smile with forced politeness. "However that may be…" he went on with a nonchalant tone of voice and a scornful sneer in the corner of his mouth, "… I merely care to play it safe, General. You never know when our Ghost is likely to strike."

"_Our_ ghost, Colonel? It's _your_ ghost, I should say. For it is thanks to _your_ outrageous and pointless lessons in the rules of war that this so-called ghost came into being at all. Correct me, if I'm wrong, Colonel." O'Hara paused to wait for a reaction. But when an awkward silence suggested that there was nothing to correct, he went on, "Hence, it falls to _your_ lot to make this ghost disappear again. Whatever you do, Colonel, remember that your duty as a soldier of the Crown entails treating this people with some respect. As long as they work for us unquestioningly, they are not to be touched!"

The last word had passed the general's lips so clipped and brisk that it was nothing short of a smack in the face.

And indeed, being the recipient of this blunt reprimand, he felt the skin across his cheeks burning with a sour mixture of anger and humiliation. He made an effort not to be the one who broke off eye contact. Just as he fought the strong urge to beat that smug grin out of his superior's face.

Not caring the least to veil his satisfaction at his subordinate's quandary, O'Hara went on, "I have a feeling that His Lordship won't be overly pleased to learn about your repeated use of those hotspurs, I'm afraid."

"With respect, Sir!" he hissed through gritted teeth, barely able to conceal is vexation any longer. "You don't know what it is like to do one's duty out here! You'd best keep your hand close to your weapon, ready to strike if need be, or you'll be done for before you know it."

"At the very least, I know that any officer under the command of His Lordship is expected to behave and act as a gentleman in the first place! Your brutal tactics must stop!"

Having no way to openly contradict O'Hara, he just glared at him. It wasn't easy to control himself, especially when he felt his blood boiling and seething like water in a kettle on fire.

General O'Hara, unimpressed by his smouldering frustration, did make a point of insisting on an affirmative response: "Do I make myself clear, Colonel?" The general smiled falsely, just waiting for him to make a mistake.

He needed to pull himself together not to say something wrong, indeed. Just what did that lapdog think he was doing when he so deliberately scratched at his authority? Lickspittles like him always thought they knew it all and yet didn't actually understand the least. O'Hara was bothered about no more than a fly in the ointment whereas he could feel, could smell, that there was danger in the air. But he knew that there was no point in having further words with the general.

"As clear as daylight, Sir!" he finally replied with stiff politeness and offending delay. Inwardly, he sneered as he noticed the quickly darkening sky behind O'Hara.

A conceited grin rose to O'Hara's face. He clearly considered himself head and shoulders above the colonel, completely unaware, though, of the odd light that now fell upon him.

It was that special kind of light that bathed the landscape in menacing comeliness right before darkness took reign. A last short moment in which some things shone with an almost unreal brightness in the face of their closing doom. General O'Hara's perfectly groomed, white powdered wig stood out against the gloomy firmament with unequalled intensity

They eyed each other with a feeling of superiority on both sides. But neither of them got the chance to deal out any further gibe.

A gunshot cut the tension.

No less a man than the Ghost himself had just appeared. In challenging pose, he sat on his proudly prancing mount, as an intelligible noise in his wake boded of something huge coming to the fore at disheartening speed. It was an impressive sight that struck fear into the hearts of everyone present when a big scaly creature emerged from the clouds.

The Ghost was in league with a dragon.

Transfixed, general and colonel stood reconciled in awe of the imminent peril.

Only when the first shock ceased, the irony of the moment became bitterly apparent. It hit him hard to find himself gaping along with O'Hara. He nearly regarded it as an insult of his qualities as a fighter when he saw that he had just lapsed into the same perplexity as the general. Although they stood side by side as members of the same party, they couldn't possibly have differed any more.

O'Hara had turned the same pale shade as his wig and could neither abandon nor hide his terrified gaze. In contrast to this woebegone figure of his superior, he defied the bewilderment and directed all his attention to the enemy, simply so that he might weigh his chances. It stung him to no end when he realized that it was O'Hara's order that he would have to await. What a shame! Something inside him rebelled vehemently when he found both their gazes still locked to the Ghost who, after all, proved to be their common subject of interest. He loathed to see that he and O'Hara had anything in common. To hell with whatever they shared. It certainly wasn't fear that caused the nasty pressure on his stomach, but blazing anger over the recognition that the Ghost of all people had made him and O'Hara look in one direction again. Damn that man!

The dragon, however, left him not another minute to rage. In a disastrous demonstration of its devastating powers, the beast sent a flash of fire across the field. Far worse than a thunderstorm, it aimed both intentionally and precisely. In no time the sheaves had turned into giant torches and most of that day's harvest into black smoke. The sudden surplus of heat made him gasp for breath. But the pungent air only cauterised his respiratory ducts. Everything around him was in a riot. Like a bevy of startled rabbits, formerly compliant peasants were now running higgledy-piggledy from the fields. They yelled and screamed in wild panic, making it impossible for him to keep control over things.

"Do something, Colonel!" O'Hara shouted, entirely lacking good form. At the several frantic efforts to mount his horse, his wig had come to hang considerably askew on his head by now. "It is your duty to defend the King's realm," the general gasped as he pulled with an ungainly tug on the reins, blank despair in his eyes. All noble ideas of honour and correct demeanour were apparently gone with the wind, if only someone would save him. Now!

In the face of all adversity, he couldn't but gloat over this poor sight of O'Hara. With satisfaction, he saw his superior eventually losing all bearing and sneered when he observed the general hastily turning tails.

Of course, O'Hara could not be accused of cowardice in the field for it. As a general, it was O'Hara's privilege and damn duty to retreat in order to save himself for the sake of the company that needed leadership whatever may come. He shouldn't be at all surprised if O'Hara was in store for an extra reward for getting himself successfully out of harm's way. Whereas he in his capacity as a colonel was considered dispensable and expected to face and attack the enemy at any cost. He was the one to actually settle the job, while the general would reap the laurels. That was the higher nobility's famous idea of noble conduct of war. What was deemed honourable by them, was naught but hazardous for him. Not that he minded the risk. Not at all.

What did not sit well with him was the blatant unbalance of pay. No matter how much he staked, his chances of reward remained fairly limited. Being the son of a petty nobleman put an insurmountable obstacle to his advance in the old-established hierarchy. His great ambitions notwithstanding, he would never exceed his social standing.

There he was going again. Despite all the disdain he harboured for the colonials, there was this one aspect of their ideas that greatly affected its lure on him. It was their inexhaustible belief that almost anything was possible. The only boundaries to a man's rise were set by his own deficiencies. While the ossified order of the Old World impaired his progress at every twist and turn, no instructions, no regulations, no class-distinctions could bar a man's way here in the New World. What a marvellous prospect! It was just this sense of liberty that tied the colonists together, lending such a powerful, intrepid air to them. And the Ghost over there personified all this with every fibre of his body. Simply infectious!

Hell! This wasn't the time to contemplate changing sides. He knew his place and the expectations that rested on him.

'_Do something, Colonel!'_ He recalled the fearful stammering of O'Hara. Had the general been actually aware of what he had said? It seemed questionable. Sure, officially O'Hara had acted most reasonably and according to the law in force when he had decided to withdraw from the source of menace. But everyone with half an eye could see that the general had just no less than failed to live up to his responsibilities as the doughty respectable man that he was looked upon in virtue of his noble birth. The only respectable thing that could be made out about him was the distance that he had already covered.

Nonetheless, what had sounded like a rather vague instruction by his superior, had been the fateful order at him to sacrifice himself. He had no choice but to play the bait. Just great! That was definitely not what he had fancied to be the last stage of his career. It was only thanks to his well cherished fundamentally cynical attitude that let him see the one good thing in it: O'Hara had eventually yielded the point and let him do as he pleased in whatever way he saw fit. Alas, there wasn't really much to be done. As matters stood, all he could do was to sell his life as dearly as possible.

However, he wasn't afraid of it. Quite the opposite. There could never be so dangerous a task for the leader of the Dragoons as that he would fail to mount his horse at first go. Sober and sinisterly quiet, he'd captured the essence of the situation from horseback in no time and found that he actually loved the challenge. He loved the sensation only present in the immediacy of danger. It put him right in his element, allowing him to coolly contemplate which steps to take.

Now that the Ghost was in reach and the general still close enough to witness his soldierly qualities, it was such a fine opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. If he could set an end to the Ghost's doings here and now, the general's spiteful tongue would be squelched as well.

But the Ghost was watched closely by the dragon. And the sight of the scale armoured creature proudly presenting its enormous span was rather demoralizing. There was no thinking of getting away by playing a feint upon anyone here. Did not live to see that. He would have to charge the enemy - cost what it may!

All he could hope for was that his sacrifice would not be in vain. He may have been condemned to carry out this suicidal mission, but he still could do it to some purpose. If O'Hara would at least muster up the courage to watch him, he would get the general an idea where the beast was assailable and use this knowledge efficiently. _If _the general did. If not, the Ghost would come off the winner. One way or another, someone else was to take the victory. Botheration!

He hated to be the bait!

No matter how daringly he dashed forward or how deeply he ducked away, one precise stoop of the giant yet versatile beast would land him as easy prey in its fangs. He had no doubt that the dragon might gulp him down without so much as chewing. However, if he was to be swallowed, he'd make sure of being hard to digest. He'd fought in too many battles to accept defeat before the last skirmish was decided. Even trapped in the cavity of the dragon's mouth, he could try to drive his sabre into the beast's palate. This way the creature could not just devour him or else it would die at the very attempt.

He cherished no illusions, though. There was no way in hell that he could ever reckon on conquering the dragon. Yet he was undaunted. Fortune had often favoured him. So, just on the off-chance that he would make it past the beast, he'd spare no effort and kill its master. A mischievous sneer flashed in the corner of his mouth: the idea appealed to him greatly. Once the Ghost was vanquished, he would be the new commander-in-chief; he himself would take the authority of command. With the dragon under his control, he would be no longer dependant on anyone's good graces. To hell with O'Hara, to hell with Cornwallis even! Seeing this small glint of a chance was enough for him to proceed with utter resolution. He had nothing to lose.

Reining in his mount with the well accomplished pressure of his thighs, he smoothly brought himself into a position face to face with the Ghost. In doing so, he held the reins with his left hand as it rested seemingly relaxed on the pommel. Slightly shifting forward as if to optimise his posture, he let his right hand casually slide beneath the left lower arm. On the whole, it would appear to everyone that all of this had just been the result of an incidental movement. In fact, it was a move of cool deliberation.

Where it was hidden from sight, he'd already clasped the grip of his sabre.

With seasoned perspicacity, he now studied his opponent just as the Ghost on his part eyed him with tense interest. Knowing that the rebel leader was an old hand, he had to take into consideration that the Ghost might already have seen the catch. But it seemed questionable, since the Ghost showed no sign of taking counter action. He didn't show any reaction at all. There was no hint, not the slightest indication of the rebel leader's first move. What did he intend to achieve with this absolute stillness when everything around was in a terrible uproar? What trick was the Ghost deriving this time? Damn him!

He was sickened with speculation and caution. He wanted nothing more than to have this over and done with. Whatever the Ghost had up his sleeve, he was on the alert. He had underestimated the man once. He surely wouldn't make that mistake twice. As he sensed the gravity of the situation increasing, he clenched and unclenched his fist around the handle as was his wont to obtain the best grip possible. Below the stern surface, he beamed with joy; positive that this time nobody would whistle him back to claim a say in the matter. He'd seen enough.

Grimly determined to wield his blade with lethal skill, he firmly clasped the handle now. If the Ghost didn't have the guts to attack, he would take the initiative.

All at once, he drew his sabre. He roared out loud as he raised it up high, the fatal end pointed forward. He spurred his horse headlong at the Ghost who awaited him head up, still unmoving below the shielding wings of his flying beast. He was cut to the quick by the man's brazenness in not to budging an inch! His curved and raised sabre must without a doubt be a nasty prospect for anyone, but it just couldn't seem to daunt this man.

The Ghost still held his position. Boldly presenting his throat, he downright asked to have his head cut off. Was it bravery or just foolishness that the Ghost took absolutely no precautions to defend himself? He maintained a stoic calm, as if he didn't seriously expect to get into fight at all. Arrogant bastard! A well protected bastard after all. Before he would be close enough to lay hand on the Ghost, he himself would be well in the reach of the dragon that only seemed to wait for its master's order.

All the same! Should the Ghost just rely on the fire-spitting creature to settle things for him! Neither ghost nor dragon could stem a dragoon.

Unswervingly, he kept closing in on the Ghost. He approached him with undiminished pace, driven only by the desire to behead the Ghost like a soft-boiled egg. This time he would save the address and just give him short shrift. This time he would win! He must! Now!

His sabre flashed in the last sunrays as he swung it back. The deadly blade rushed through the air with a sharp whiz under which everything around him became strangely silent. Everybody, everything seemed oddly small as if the world was shrinking to insignificance. The only thing that still felt real, was the weight of his sabre in his hand and the ill-equipped Ghost in front of him. Victory was his, of that he was sure.

But when he was about to strike, he saw this satisfied smirk in the Ghost's expression, clearly implying that he had just done what the Ghost had expected him to do. All of a sudden he felt sick, so terribly sick; he had a hard time withstanding the urge to throw up as he began to understand.

Because he had raised the sabre, he had to grapple with the Ghost – at the fair chance that the Ghost might win. In spite of all likelihood. Again.

As if to affirm this thought, the Ghost possessed the impudence to flirt and winked at him. But instead of fighting, he nimbly turned his horse and took to flight.

It was a close escape. His swishing blade had missed the Ghost by mere inches.

"No!" he barked. He wanted that fight, he wanted to have this sorted. Now. Once for all. Enraged like never before, he made an effort to tail the Ghost whose margin wasn't yet too wide. He still could make it. And yet, although he was riding at top speed, drawing out the best of his horse and himself, the distance between them simply wouldn't decrease.

His lungs burned and he sweat all over from the exertion. When he was finally forced to see that he would never catch up with the Ghost, he bawled out with fury and frustration. Only then did he realize that his unbridled wrath had nearly made him ignore the actual danger from above.

All of a sudden, a burning wave rolled over him. He cringed and feared death under the parching heat.

The dragon had shot another red-hot fireball out of one of its nostrils. He was sure that the creature had aimed at something, but it hadn't been him. Dragons never missed their aim. He quickly turned his head to see what had happened. That was when he felt something of a coarse texture grazing his forehead. Surely the dragon's tail had hit him just in passing. Hell! It was like his skin had instantly caught fire. The creature's touch must have a toxic effect to human skin. He felt the heat quickly spreading all over his face before an overwhelmingly strong headache made his vision blur, eventually bringing him back to the foreign bedstead.

There he lay, wheezing, bathed in his own sweat. Someone was leaning over him. He started when a lukewarm cloth was removed from his forehead and winced when it was replaced by a cold one. Only then did he notice the pair of worried eyes that were fixed on him. They belonged to the woman who had so solemnly promised not to budge from his side.

He snorted his disregard.

What kind of support was that supposed to be? Did she honestly think of slaying a dragon with moist linen? He could do well without such inept assistance. Where in the heck had she been during the last moments? To all appearances, she had just gone into hiding instead of sticking to her word.

He should have known. Unreliable riff-raff!

"Be gone!" he snapped at her. She'd better not try and keep him. He had to attend to his tasks. Forcefully, he jerked up and tried to push past her.

If it hadn't been for Helen's quick and determined interference, he'd very nearly have dropped out of the bed.

Never realizing his miserable condition, he didn't appreciate her efforts. The woman was no more than a nuisance to him and he rebelled vehemently against being tucked under the blanket.

Tavington had lost all sense of time, unable to tell fevered dream from reality, while Helen had a distinct idea that she would pass the night awake at his side.

***

Next: _7. More Fever_


	7. More Fever

A/N: Thank you **Belka, Kristen143, Lady of Leitrim** and **HyperInSugar** for reviewing the previous chapter. While Belka was surprised about the dragon, Lady of Leitrim found it familiar. I thank you for letting me know about your thoughts in the first place. Seeing so different reactions to it was interessting for me. As it is, I've decided to go on with some more excursion to other Jason Isaacs characters/movies and quotes thereof. It's kind my own little experiment - dedicated to 'The Cheese' - to place as much of my favourite fan stuff as possible in this 'Patriot'-story.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to 'The Patriot'. Just as I don't own various quotes of and references to other movies/characters. Not to spoil anyone's fun to find out for themselves where these might actually belong to , I shall mention the number and sources of quotes below this chapter. Hope that's okay.

**Chapter 7 – More Fever**

Strength-sapping hours later at the early dawn of January, 18th, Helen hadn't slept a wink. The foreign soldier, caught in a perpetual to and fro between sleep and waking, had kept her on the jump. What had she thought she was doing when she'd offered a dying man a place to take his last gasp?

The fever that he'd already worked up by the time of his arrival had grown even worse. Helen knew it wasn't unusual for fever to rise in the first half of the night. In the beginning, she had been optimistic that it would reach its peak sometime around midnight and start ceasing then.

But any relaxation was long in coming. Apparently harassed by the wicked monsters of his mind, he had kept turning in his bed nearly without respite. Soon, Helen had seen that the moist clothes against his forehead did little to lower his fever. Thus, she had extended the use of cold compresses. At first, on his calves and, when this didn't show the intended effect, on his whole body.

What she had started as an ambitious attempt of rescue, had more and more turned into a strenuous task, toilsome even, all the more as he seriously interfered with her efforts. Visibly out of his right mind, he'd kept falling from one frenzy to the next. Barely able to compete with his abrupt, aggressive movements, Helen had had a hard time preventing him from falling. At some point she'd even feared that anything she did was in vain as the stranger remained delirious to an alarmingly high degree. She had no idea in what horrible abyss he was stuck, but it was obvious that he struggled hard to get out of it.

He'd made a most pitiable sight, hagridden with fever and pain; not to mention the mental anguish, of which she couldn't really tell what it was or where it came from. She couldn't remember having experienced a stronger feeling of empathy ever before. Yes, an actual feeling. It was if he'd passed part of his disease on to her. And she had been receptive to it. Each new attack of fever had increased the tension inside her. Her cheeks had burnt with anxious excitement. She'd winced and flinched along with him whenever she'd changed his bandages. The more she'd striven to restore him to life and health, the more she'd felt her own energy run low.

Eventually, desperation had started to infiltrate her confidence, allowing the doubts to get louder than the trust in her abilities, which had nearly impaired any sober-minded action. She hadn't felt well in her skin. After all she was the one supposed to help, and not to suffer. More then once, Helen had come to see how very unsettling it was to be alone with a raving man. And it hadn't been before the wee morning hours that his fever abated even slightly.

Only when Helen saw that his rest would most likely be of some duration, did she decide to leave her place at the bedside for a while. Exhausted rather than relieved, she wiped the sweat and weariness from her own forehead, stretched her limbs and yawned. When a clearly audible rumbling mingled with her yawn, Helen sighed. Wearily, she put one hand on her belly and wiped it gently.

Outside it was dawning. Fit to drop, Helen noticed that morning had already broken and shook her head. She felt like anything but starting the day. In all probability it was wiser to take a nap. As long as he slept, she should do that, too. Who could say when the next fever attack would hit? Better to regain some energy herself. Helen decided to ignore the sunrise along with her stomach's desire to be fed for the moment. Breakfast could wait and the same applied for every other activity. She would take charge of things – one by one – as soon as she had the time to spare. Right now, she needed a break or nothing would be settled. Helen yawned again and strode over to her own bed, where she almost immediately fell into dreamless slumber.

But it wasn't long before she woke from her now angrily rumbling stomach. Alright then, there was no delaying that matter any longer.

To avoid disturbing the man's much-deserved rest, Helen crossed the room on tiptoe.

However, she stopped for a moment to observe him. It was quite a relief to see him calm and easy for a change. But, of course, when taking a closer look there was no denying the fact that he was far from well. Fever had worn him out. Profound shadows below his eyes spoke volumes about the critical state of his reserves. In fact, those dark smudges lent a skull-like appearance to his face, which stood in appallingly pale contrast. Along with the grave loss of blood, any color seemed to have leaked out of him, leaving his formerly fever-flushed cheeks and lips in a wraithlike ashen hue. Only the rattling of his breath hinted at the fact that his light was still burning, though at an absolute minimum.

This once, no doubt, stately man had truly extended himself to the last. Dirt stuck under his finger nails. He must have struggled fiercely to make his way to her doorstep. Sure enough, it had been marked by stumbling and falling. Considering the seriousness of his wounds, Helen had a hard time imagining how he could ever have taken a step away from the battlefield on his own. It bordered a wonder that he had summoned the strength at all. According to common sense this man had to be dead. Sadly, he most probably wasn't very far from it. Her flesh crept at the thought.

It wasn't useful to think of it. What mattered was the fact that he was here. He had made it so far of his own accord, now it was her turn. In a way she had been asking for this. What else could she do but take it as her duty to care for him as long as he couldn't take care of himself? She'd kind of given him her word. Now she had to stand for it, no matter what the consequences. If only it hadn't been for that awkward feeling in the pit of her stomach that she might not be able to keep her promise.

'Come on, Helen. Don't ponder with an empty stomach, if you don't have to,' she thought and left the sleeping chamber silently.

When she entered the living room, Helen drew a wry face. The unexpected arrival of her 'guest' last night had left its marks all over the place. Candles had toppled over and had spilled their wax. Clothes lay in disarray all over the floor. Footprints of encrusted mud soiled the planks and a dark stain of dried blood marked the place where the stranger had collapsed. Helen shivered. The fire in the stove was close to dead. Carefully she put some small pieces of firewood on the smouldering ashes until new flames flared up again. It was at least one thing she'd been able to save.

For a while Helen kept standing next to the stove, waiting for the radiating warmth to drive the chill out of her bones. She closed her eyes and the crackling sound of burning wood made her feel a little bit more comfortable as it lent at least a small sense of cosiness to the room.

Of course, it was barely more than a fleeting idea that got shattered at once, as soon as her eyes ranged the awful jumble around her again. Disillusioned, Helen blew away a loose strand of hair that tickled her nose. Better not to have Martha come back into such a mess. If she wanted to avoid a severe lecture, she had to restore some order to this room. The sooner the better. Helen hove a sigh. She knew it was more easily said than done.

"Oh well, it shan't be too difficult," Helen tried to convince herself. "But first of all, I think, I'll have breakfast."

Indeed, the prospect of a nice, strong cup of coffee lent wings to her drained self. Helen set a kettle of water on the stove and fetched the coffee-mill, while she quickly went over her possibilities of what she might prepare to eat. Scrambled eggs or pancake perhaps, anything that needed no vast preparation, yet something that would warm and strengthen her. As she ground the beans, Helen took in the rich aroma of coffee and was pleased to find that it nicely stimulated her ability to make up her mind.

Soon enough a couple of eggs were frying agreeably in the pan. When Helen poured the boiled water onto the ground coffee, the invigorating scent rose to her nose and suddenly she knew where she would have to start to re-establish some order. She could see the result before her inner eye already and was quite content that this afternoon her home would look neat again.

In an almost cheerful mood, Helen was just about to take a first sip, when an unpleasant noise from the adjacent room tore her out of her planning. Without hesitation, Helen jumped up and rushed over to the sleeping chamber, leaving the eggs in the pan to themselves.

Helen reached the stranger's side only just in time to prevent him from falling. He'd been struggling to get out of bed and had knocked down the bowl with water and compresses that now swamped the floor.

"Oh stop! Stop it, sir!" Helen shouted at him. "You mustn't get up. Lie back, lie back," she urged him. "Calm yourself, Sir. I'm here. I'm here now."

The stranger lay back, though Helen wasn't sure if it was to yield to her guidance. He didn't really seem to listen. Probably he didn't perceive anything that was going on around him. His eyes danced wildly behind half-opened lids, his face no longer pale, but red as a lobster in seething brew. Another fever attack had seized him.

He murmured and muttered incoherently as if being tangled in a heated debate with himself. Helen couldn't make head or tails of the fragments she happened to hear. In what horrible depths was he caught, she wondered?

"Enough!" Cornwallis cut him off with a dismissive flick of the hand. "A fine officer you are, bested by a bedtime story."

"But, my lord, I assure you that's exactly what happened." Tavington was still out of breath. He'd come all the way from the fields, or what had been left over of it after the dragon's attack, at full gallop to give detailed report on the latest, admittedly not very pleasant events.

"Don't you think I'm a little too old to believe in tales? A ghost. A dragon. That's ridiculous! That you dare to dish out such poor excuses at all, Colonel!"

"You may want to ask General O'Hara, if you don't believe me."

"Oh yes, Colonel, I will! There are indeed a number of question I wish to have answered as soon as the general is back. I suppose he informed you about the immediate abandonment of your most infamous and brutal tactics?"

Blood shot to Tavington's face as he saw that General O'Hara had indeed censured him at Cornwallis' behest. Damn! There was no trace of a warm reception by his once benevolent patron. His stomach jolted awkwardly when he understood that this time he was in for a severe dressing down. And Cornwallis didn't make him wait.

"If you are incapable of securing our supply line against these militia, how in the world do you expect to do so against the colonial regulars? Or against the French, if and when they arrive?"

It was quite frustrating to see Cornwallis harping on the disgraceful fact, that the militia was so difficult to get under control. Especially, when at the same time he was forced to remain far below his full range of capacities. Tavington knew he could as well have talked to a brick wall, yet he tried again to get a hearing: "In my defence, my lord, they won't fight like regulars. They melt away after they attack and we have found no way of predicting when or where they will strike next."

"Militia, Colonel, they're militia. Farmers with pitch forks!"

"I am afraid, they are far more than that. I know the man, this so-called Ghost, who leads them and I will not underestimate him. He has the loyalty of the people. As you know, my lord, he and his men are elusive…"

"Not another word, Colonel! This _Ghost_ was created by your lack of restraint. Your brutality has swelled his ranks, without which this Ghost would simply disappear. For pity's sake, man, I personally appointed you to lead the Dragoons. You have become a threat to my good reputation. Our campaign suffers because of your incompetence!"

Tavington felt he could not let this blame of insufficiency go uncommented. It wasn't brutality that thwarted a quick and successful advancement of their campaign – but the wretchedly ordained lack thereof. How much more did it take to make the Lord General finally see? He'd only just opened his mouth, when he got cut short by Cornwallis.

"What you've got to understand is that we serve the Crown. And the King of England, like history itself, judges us not merely be the outcome of a war, but also by the manner in which it is fought. Whether it is done honourably. We are his agents here in North America and we must conduct ourselves accordingly…"

'_And get fat like you?'_ Tavington thought to himself when he heard Cornwallis reasoning for the umpteenth time. He watched the Lord General working up his rage as he sat at the head of an elegant table set for none but himself. Richly filled platters and bowls offered an over-abundant choice of delicious food that wasn't meant to be shared with anyone else. Resting in the lap of luxury, it was easy for the General to talk about honourable conduct and morals. But, of course, Tavington knew better than to object and just bore the lecture.

"…You serve under me, and the manner in which you conduct yourself among the population here reflects upon me. From this point forward, surrendering troops will be given quarter. The use of these brutal tactics will cease. Remember, Colonel, these colonials are our brethren and when this conflict is over, we will be re-establishing commerce with them."

"Commerce," Tavington repeated somewhat dumbfounded. In fact Cornwallis had caught him off guard with that and left him at a considerable loss for what else to say. War had turned out to be his profession. Commerce wasn't quite his trade. He had experienced first hand how commerce could make and break a man. He wasn't keen on following in his father's footsteps. "Is it not enough, my lord," Tavington began, barely able to repress his annoyance over Cornwallis' lack of acknowledgement, "that I've never lost a battle?"

"No, it is not!" Cornwallis bellowed, thwarting any hopes of praise. "Mark my words, Colonel Tavington, you could do worse than to take an example by General O'Hara who knows to conduct himself as a perfect gentleman in every situation."

Tavington set his jaw. He realized that there was nothing he could say or do at the moment that might break any ice with the Lord General. It hurt him to see Cornwallis preferring O'Hara's smugness to his dauntless zest for action. However much he yearned for recognition, there was no way he would ever condescend to serve with such courtly, obsequious ado. Sweat of utter discomfiture pearled on the bridge of his nose, when he cleared his throat with some difficulty, forcing himself to say, "So let's hope that General O'Hara will always be around to save the day."

Tavington saw Cornwallis glowering at him. But His Lordship never came to rebuke that cynical remark. The door was thrust open and two valets entered, great bewilderment in their pallid faces. They carried a uniformed figure and placed it with a dull thud right on the teak table.

On first glance this all resembled a bad joke, a scarecrow wrapped in a general's uniform, but it wasn't straw that filled the attire. It was a human corpse, its skull burnt past recognition.

"What's the idea of this?" Cornwallis demanded to know. Pushed past the border of his tolerance, his voice trembled with barely curbed rage. "Who is this?"

"General O'Hara, my lord," one of the valets hurried to inform His Lordship. "This is how he returned from the Ghost's latest ambush." Visibly abashed to have none but unpleasant news to share, he timidly added, "I'm sorry, Sir, he died."

Tense silence filled the room as everyone held their breath and watched the corpse with incredulous astonishment. Ironically enough, the only action came from the dead body. There was still rising smoke from it as if freshly roasted. The dragon hadn't missed its aim. Not at all. Once the idea had sunken in, Tavington didn't even bother to hide a smirk.

Cornwallis, however, wasn't quite so amused. "Ghost or no ghost, that man must be found and hanged! He has insulted me personally and he has insulted the Crown!"

Tavington appreciated Cornwallis' indignation. The formerly gloating smirk established itself in the corner of his mouth where it matured to a crafty smile of intrigue. He had a fine sense to tell when humiliation pressed so hard on a man as to push him past the boundary of tolerance and decency, into that nebulous area where he was ready to disregard his principles for the sake of vengeance. Cornwallis had just crossed that line and Tavington would not hesitate to use that to his advantage. All he had to do was to fan the flame.

"Rather impressive for a farmer with a pitchfork, wouldn't you say?" Tavington remarked pointedly. Well aware of the fact that the tide had just turned, he even sneered openly now.

"Impressive, Colonel?" Angry as he was, Cornwallis missed the sarcasm in Tavington's words. "The cheek of that man! He deliberately acts against any accepted practice by attacking and killing the highest-ranking officer in the field.

He has lost me my aide de camp! It is an unprecedented affront of such a scandalous degree that it stinks to high heaven! I will not, cannot let this pass."

Tavington was genuinely surprised by Cornwallis outburst. He had never heard the Lord General availing himself of such coarse speech. This time the Ghost had clearly gone too far. Cornwallis was in no wise willing to pose as the gentleman soldier any longer. He was by no means going to just sit under the insult. It appeared that O'Hara's death affected Cornwallis far more than he was inclined to admit. Tavington saw Cornwallis changing color with nearly every breath he took. The Lord General appeared truly lost as he struggled to keep his countenance.

In fact, Cornwallis had great difficulty in adhering to suitable composure in the face of this bold offence of taking his right and left-hand man from him. Thus he was barely able to hold back that grim thirst for blood in his voice when he demanded: "I want you to find that man and bring him to me, by whatever means necessary, before my good name is sullied any further!"

Their eyes met and Tavington knew for certain now that the Lord general was finally in the right mood to acquire a taste for some less honourable practises. The Ghost had never done him a greater favour.

"I can capture him for you," Tavington stated plainly, making no secret of his determination and self-assurance in the first place. "But to do so, it requires the use of tactics that are somewhat… What was the word your lordship used? _Brutal_, I think. Alas, an ugly business that would be," Tavington feigned scruples and embarrassment. With fake regret, he shook his head, "You have to know that my sole concern has always been and will always be the interests of the King's army and, of course, the good reputation of the leading officers. I would hate to see your reputation sullied in any way by my actions, especially any that might be thought _brutal_." He couldn't resist mentioning the word, all the more as he saw Cornwallis uncomfortably wincing whenever he used it.

"Brutal, brutal!" Cornwallis snarled irately, already sensing that he would have to yield the point. Disgruntled, he ripped the napkin from his collar and tossed it onto his platter. "Come to the point, Colonel. What exactly are you suggesting?"

Tavington took his time answering. Unbidden to do so, he poured himself some wine. With offensive nonchalance he then explained, "I am prepared to do what is necessary, my lord. I alone will assume the full mantle of responsibility for my actions free of the chain of command, rendering you blameless."

"My brave Tavington, an army unto himself." Cornwallis jovially smiled. His expression had lightened at the thought of such an easy and comfortable way out. "Go on."

"However, if I do this, I would never be able to return to England with my honour. I should think that one from a standing respectable and wealthy as yours, my lord, would understand that."

"I understand, Colonel."

"Very well." Tavington smiled as he casually swung the glass, causing the wine to rotate and reveal its sweet, aromatic bouquet. "Then you will understand that I just can't get past the question, what's the use in being a disgrace to the name of the Crown, if they don't even pay you well for it?"

"Your honour has a price, Colonel?" Cornwallis inquired.

Tavington stood at his full height and returned His Lordship's gaze, unfaltering.

"It has expenses", he said matter-of-factly. Assuming an air of importance, he turned his head and let his eyes run over to poor General O'Hara. Since his inglorious arrival, the painting of Cornwallis' Great Danes at the far wall had come to hang considerably askew. A contemptuous smile rose to his face as he savoured the sight of declared failure. The time of lap dogs had obviously just gone. Now it was his turn to claim a bite from the opulent meal, of that he was sure. He turned towards Cornwallis again to look him straight in the face as he plainly set out the bare facts. "Honour won't shoe my horse nor feed my belly. What, I wonder, is to become of me?"

For a moment Cornwallis stood thinking. He saw O'Hara, decent but dead, and Tavington, vicious but alive, and quickly came to terms with himself that probably, sometimes, the end did justify the means. Eventually, he nodded and strode over to his desk.

Tavington followed close on his heels, curious to find what kind of benefit he would derive from their just closed bargain. A nice bag of gold or maybe a share of land would serve his turn well enough. With a derisive sidelong glance on the dead body of O'Hara whose decease was nothing short of degradation, Tavington found that his triumph was very close to completion. The poor fellow's corpse still smoked and resembled an over-sized festive day's rib roast on the table.

But when the disgusting smell of burnt flesh reached him, Tavington wrinkled his nose. He doubted that this feast would tickle the palate. In an attempt to rinse away the repellent whiff, he took a mouthful of wine out of his yet untapped glass. The liquid had barely touched his tongue when its unexpected bitter taste caused him to cough and spit it out again.

"Keep it down, Sir," Helen pleaded.

With difficulty, she had tried to provide him with a spoonful of willow bark essence. It was so important for him to finally get the fever under control. Much to her regret, though, his incalculable, violent behaviour had caused her to spill quite a bit of it. Worriedly, she looked at the small remainder in the bottle. Her stocks were running seriously low. However, it wasn't her only concern. His wound, although cleaned and dressed, continued to ooze and needed tending once more. Carefully, Helen placed the little bottle out of his reach and went to fetch new bandages, when she became aware of the nasty smell that spread from the kitchen.

* * *

Disclaimer: This chapter contains twenty-nine quotes originating from several Jason-Isaacs-movies such as 'Patriot', 'Dragonheart', 'Sweet November', 'Harry Potter' (at great parts unchanged in wording, yet put together in a new order; sometimes slightly altered to fit into the context at hand). Sure enough, you recognized most of them anyway. However, if you should wonder what's missing, and of course to do justice to the several copyright owners, here is the detailed list of quotes that have not sprung from my pen:

10 times Tavington quoting himself

8 times Cornwallis quoting himself

2 times Tavington quoting Lucius Malfoy (HP CoS)

2 times Tavington quoting Knight Bowen (Dragonheart)

1 time Tavington quoting Cornwallis

1 time Tavington quoting King Einon (Dragonheart)

1 time Tavington quoting Chaz (Sweet November)

1 time Cornwallis quoting John Billings

1 time Cornwallis quoting King Einon (Dragonheart)

1 time Cornwallis quoting Brother Gilbert (Dragonheart)

1 time a valet quoting Captain Bordon

* * *

Next: 8. Doing one's Duty


	8. Doing One's Duty

A/N: I'd like to thank **everybody** who has read and reviewed so far. So sorry for the very slow update. Thank you **Raven **for your Beta services. Someone, please, keep his/her fingers crossed that I eventually continue and finish this story. Thank you!

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters/settings/dialogues from 'The Patriot', 'Dragonheart', 'Passionada' or 'St. Ives'. Yet, I made use of several quotes and scenes thereof and I hope you recognize them when you come to it. No harm meant - it's all just for the fun of it. So, please don't mind, but enjoy!;-)

Chapter 8 – Doing one's duty

The eggs! Helen dropped everything and raced next door. Her heart missed a beat when she entered. The room was thick with smoke. Quickly, she pressed a lappet of her shirt against her mouth and nose and started to grope her way to the stove. There she found the smouldering remnants of her breakfast, a scorched black mass in the pan. She grabbed the handle and hastily brought it outside.

That was close. The pan fumed and sizzled irately in the cold morning air. Just great! The eggs were burned and inedible by now. Shivering with cold and fatigue, Helen stood on the porch and grieved over her lost breakfast. Her stomach rumbled most reproachfully but got drowned by the moanful sounds from inside the house. Damn it all! Helen felt the making of a solid grudge against the wounded man. She'd spent all night keeping watch over him and got rewarded by a marred mealtime!

Then again, she knew perfectly well that nobody else but she herself was to blame for the wretched situation. She should have stuck to the unwritten daily routine. She should have cooked a decent meal yesterday instead of spending time on sewing a dress she most probably would never wear.

Displeased with herself, she went in and slammed the door shut. The derangement of her little home seemed to get worse and worse. Alas, she couldn't bother with any clearing work or cooking now. Still hungry, Helen saw the pressing need to care for the man at first. She sighed. For the time being, another apple would have to do. The prospect did not appeal to her. In passing, she helped herself to an apple and took a hasty bite. This time, the sweet juice did nothing to cheer her up. What had been the luxury of liberty yesterday was a makeshift solution now. Helen chewed listlessly on a morsel before she put the not even halfway eaten apple aside. She had to see after her patient.

In the manner of a refractory child, he had thrust the blanket away. Thoroughly, indeed. There was nothing left to the imagination. It made Helen gasp. Not prepared for this unobstructed view, she felt tinged with sudden excitement. And however unseemly it may have been, she just couldn't help staring. Yesterday's thoughts about not having been with a man in a long while crossed her mind too quickly to be stopped. Several seconds passed before Helen caught herself gazing all but mesmerized at his naked body. She blushed. Naturally, this wasn't the time for wishful thinking.

Reprimanding herself for standing about gaping when she should act conscientiously, she picked the blanket from the floor. Considerately, Helen made a move to cover him up, but found him highly unwilling to that. With an incredible amount of strength, he fiercely resisted any attempt of being tucked/ to tuck him under the blanket again. On that occasion, the two of them more than once happened to get in quite suggestive touch with each other. And even though well knowing that the whole matter was in no way of pleasure-seeking nature, Helen just couldn't help it when it left her genuinely flustered. Yet, Helen managed to call herself to order and saw through her task as disciplined as possible, telling herself that he was completely unaware of his doing as he still dwelled in his restless delirium.

He was with a woman. Excited hands roused his senses. A bit too excited perhaps. She was obliging, obviously. But in a way as if she spared no effort to get an awkward yet inevitable duty over with as quickly as possible. She acted on purpose where she should have acted with devotion. He, however, was well on his way to satisfaction. Still, she'd best cease that over-ambitious ado or she'd be in for a sound spanking.

By the time he'd returned form the conversation with Cornwallis, dusk had set in and he'd been in a pretty bad mood. Instead of an actual reward he'd gotten a new task. How very generous of His Lordship! He'd left his horse with a foot soldier and had hurried up the stone steps to the entrance of his current quarter, a plain but solidly build castle. Cross from head to toe, he'd tossed his terra cotta dusted coat aside, never noticing the elderly servant who had dutifully hurried to offer him refreshment. In sore need to vent his frustration, he'd grabbed the first best maiden and had hauled her along. Everyone inside had known where he needed to go. They'd stepped out of his way as he'd strode into the west-wing, where his private rooms were situated, the maiden in relentless, iron tow.

At first somewhat shy, fearful even, her treatment on him had gotten more and more self-assured and decided, edging him on and on. By now, he sweat with carnal desire, languishing to taste forbidden fruits. He longed to press his excited self against her covetable body. The woman seemed yet reluctant to fully answer his wants, but it couldn't stop him. He was a man who took whatever he wanted. His possessive instincts were of inestimable value when it came to women. The few who were not eager to get in his bed were simply dragged there by force. He always got what he wanted. Eventually the maiden yielded herself to his tender ministrations without demur. He'd won.

Deep down inside, though, he knew that it all was faked. Their love wasn't passionate. Neither now nor any other time before. A fair number of women had lost themselves in his arms, very well, but never had they returned that favour. Never had they been considerate about him for his sake alone. No, they had not meant to be with him, William, in the first place. If it hadn't been for their rather selfish base endeavour to gratify their own sexual desires, they had only seen his position and had either taken advantage of it or feared for the consequences. Not one of them had ever cared to see the person he really was.

Tavington repressed a moan as the bitter sting of failure hit him. It wasn't the women's fault. He knew, it lay with him to open his heart to them. But he never really dared. Too deep sat the fear that they might find nothing but a cold and empty space where warmth and love should dwell. To help! There it was again, this indeterminable yet agonizing idea of once having been deprived of these virtues. He couldn't say when or how it had happened, but he had the all too distinct feeling that an essential part of himself had gotten lost. Indeed, his suspicion held such a strong sway over him that he forbade himself to steal a glance at this carefully barred corner of his heart not to verify this horrible idea. Well possible he was wrong. Well possible that everything was still there. But he saw no way to find out for sure. He felt like he had out locked himself from his own heart. So, how could he ever expect any person to get there, if he so persistently refused to unlock that very door?

Seeing no way out of this quandary, Tavington felt the acrid mass of frustration seething. What did it help to just take what he wanted, if he wasn't able to fully enjoy? The once flattering idea of being a man in great demand had worn out. It had been overshadowed by the dreadful awareness of his inability of genuine affection, which spoiled any pleasure at once. No matter how much he desired to be with a woman in the beginning, at some point the awful tinge of incompleteness began to spread, turning any titillating sensation into barely more than jaded pleasure. And so it was now. He just wanted to bring this to an end. He rudely grabbed at the maiden to finally keep her in place. Impatiently, he intensified his thrusts. By the time he reached his peak and released himself into her, his true cravings had still remained unsatisfied.

Unceremoniously, he left her off and felt deeply bored. The maiden, however, lay next to him, still panting and visibly heated from the experience. No longer keen on her company, he just wanted her to be gone.

"Is there any good reason why you are still here?" he asked, casting her such a disapproving look that the shy sort of lasses would have left the room without so much as picking her clothes. Not so this one. Surprisingly quickly, she overcame her confusion and sat up.

"I haven't been paid yet," she said.

For a moment, Tavington was stunned. But then, what had he expected? If she hadn't been a harlot before, he'd just debased her in a way that made her one. Whatever the case, she must be very brave to insist on recompense, or very foolish.

"You received the instruction of a lifetime," he said, his voice fraught with scorn, "'tis you who should pay me."

The woman opened her mouth to object, but got harshly interrupted when an infernal noise broke loose. Shouts and cries alternated with sickening eruptions of a heavy impact.

In a haste, he slipped into his breeches and hurried outside to see what had happened. Fire everywhere. Soldiers and servants in a desperate uproar. Another fireball came out of the dark and ruined a pinnacle with a single big explosion. He ducked away to shield himself from the debris.

"Fireworks. Lovely." The words had escaped excitedly from someone behind him.

He slightly turned and cast a sceptical sidelong glance at his former bed mate who had followed him without exactly being asked. With childlike fascination in her eyes, she clapped and cheered at the mayhem around her. Goodness, one couldn't possibly be that simple-minded, could one? Either she was infernally naïve or she had just had it.

Whatever the matter with her, he'd perfectly figured what was going on. A sinister rush of wing-strokes told unmistakably of the atrociously huge saurian flying over his castle, making ready to take new aim. The dragon was back. The beast possessed in fact the cheek to attack his home. Angered and scared at equal parts, Tavington realized he was running short of time to set up an efficient defence or let alone coordinate a counterattack. Quickly. What in all the world was he do to now?

"Pesky critters, dragons," someone stated flatly.

Tavington whisked around to the direction where the voice had come from and noticed a rider lazily approaching.

"You!" he snapped furiously. "I remember you!" Heatedly, he stretched his arm out to point at the man who he recognized as the Ghost - a most unfortunate move as it disgraced him deeply. The instant his arm was up, his breeches fell down, leaving him with nothing on but a loincloth.

"Like big rats," the Ghost continued in an irritatingly conversational tone, his eyes though firmly fixed on Tavington who, highly embarrassed, desperately grabbed for his breeches to pull them up again. Not waiting for an invitation, the Ghost dismounted and casually stepped up to him. "You never seem to get rid of them. Unless, of course, you qualify for the job." At that he complacently raised a brow, indicating that he considered himself quite capable. "You see, it's an ugly business doing one's duty. Just occasionally…" the Ghost paused for an awkward long moment in his speech, broadly gloating over Tavington's awkward position, before he finally closed, "…it's a real pleasure." With studied regret, he shrugged his shoulders, clicking his tongue. "All the more as it appears that you…" he brazenly gazed at Tavington's still unsolved predicament and chuckled, "…are not the right man."

It was enough to drive him mad! Tavington so badly wanted to fly at him and stop his pert mouth. He wanted to beat that sneer out of his face and finish that man off once for all. It was such a marvellous occasion to cease the Ghost now that he stood in front of him only a sabre's length away. Instead he was condemned to do nothing but keep his breeches in place. He'd been insulted by a creature of myth. What a shame!

"I, however, can capture him for you," the Ghost continued all self-assured, a malicious smile playing around the corner of his mouth when he made his offer. "To do so, it requires no more than paying me two bags of gold, in advance. So, do we have a deal, hm?"

Tavington's eyes narrowed as he sensed that things were strangely amiss. First Cornwallis and now the Ghost, they both obviously sought to outdo him on bargains. But he hadn't yet played all his cards.

"I don't deal with minor militiamen like you," he briskly turned the offer down. "I shall handle this myself. Before this night is over, I'm going to kill both, you and the dragon."

The Ghost, not overly concerned about this threat, leaned towards him, closely, and challenged with menacing calm: "Why wait?"

Tavington held tight on his breeches, frowning with grim suspicion. Something was so damn wrong here. No doubt.

"Soon," he hissed through gritted teeth and couldn't help feeling that he was just venturing even further in foreign grounds.

Quickly, he spun round and rushed to get his weapons. Something told him it would have been better to curb his rage, but he felt that there was no way he could ever let this offence go.

Heading back to the entry, he caught sight of the negligently clad woman. Leaning in the doorway, she ranged the turmoil with dreamy eyes, still marvelling at the supposed fireworks. Annoyed, he made an effort to push past her. But to his unpleasant surprise, he didn't get far. His eyes widened at the sudden, agonizing pain in his abdomen. Bewildered, he starred at her. Too late, he realized that she was in alliance with the Ghost. Unruly curls swayed round her face like licking snakes. Any dreaminess had vanished from her when a piercing stare out of her felinely glowing eyes met his. Disagreeably warm swells of blood gushed forth from the fresh cut, soaking the loincloth, running further down his legs. She had stabbed him.

When he felt that he couldn't keep his stand any longer, he resigned almost relieved to the fact that he would finally die.

But he could not. The pain stayed, got worse until it brought him back to consciousness. Not the blazing maiden but the still nameless woman sat at his side. She bent over him and fiddled with his wound. Confound her!

Helen startled when their eyes suddenly met.

It was a right shock for her to look into a pair of clear-minded eyes that focused with meticulous precision on her. She had believed him lost in his fever dreams. Most probably though, he'd never been more in his right mind since he'd arrived than he was now. These piercing blue eyes, so wide awake, cut effortlessly in her sobriety - it made her gasp.

Never before had she felt more intimidated by a person's mere look. It was absolutely disconcerting to have him actually look at her. No, he scowled. Helen's heart pounded. She felt strangely caught in the act and let her efforts rest. His gaze was one of utter distrust and enmity. No approval, no gratitude, just a perilous glint of cruel taxation. Helen felt a strong urge to just flee from the room. And yet she couldn't. She couldn't take her eyes off him, had to hold out under his menacing stare. Had he just realized that he'd chosen a non-British place of refuge? And would he mind? Inwardly, she screamed for help. Just what did it take to make him stop glaring? Helen gathered her courage and cleared her throat.

"Please, don't fret," Helen whispered, not sure whether she meant to calm him or rather herself. "Listen Sir," she continued, anxious to make him see that she was of no danger, "I don't mean to harm you, I'm merely changing your bandages. I understand it hurts, but you see, as long as the bleeding doesn't stop, I can't spare you the procedure. You understand that, don't you?"

Although the words were just spluttering out of her, Helen couldn't prevent her voice from faltering. If only he'd stop this hostile stare. Helen willed away the trembling from her hands and attended studiously to her task.

Finally, it was her who broke off their eye contact and it felt like she'd lost a covert contest.

"Please, hold out, I'm nearly done," she said while she cared to fix the loose end of the bandage. "Alright, that's it for the moment." It had come out more like a huge sigh of relief rather than a report of her progress. When her eyes searched his again, Helen frowned with disbelief.

"Sir?"

Helen had looked up from her work and was astounded to find him obviously asleep again. Nothing hinted at him having been or still being conscious or let alone dangerous. With his eyes closed, he looked just so harmless as he looked helpless that Helen wondered whether her mind had merely played a trick on her. Did she start imagining things? If he had truly been gazing so vividly at her only a moment ago, he couldn't possibly have fallen so fast asleep in practically no time, could he? So was he just pretending then? Spontaneously, her hand reached forth in order to find out for certain about. But then she hesitated and withdrew before she'd touched him. On second thought, she found that she wasn't overly keen on verifying the suspicion he might be about to cheat her, not really.

"Well then, try to sleep, Sir. I'll leave you alone now. Just get some rest. I won't be far." Helen assured him, not knowing whether he took note of it or not, and left the room.

Closing the door behind her, Helen drew a deep breath. She could not deny feeling a heavy load falling off her shoulders once she was out of his sight. There was something terrifying about being in the immediate presence of this man. The memory of his poignant look made her already dread for the next time she would have to enter the room. It had only been a short moment and yet so tense - it still made her flesh creep. Was it a memory after all? Or had it been just an illusion?

Helen stood still and listened attentively. But everything remained silent. No sound could be heard. No moan, no whimper. No rustling of the blanket. Just nothing. Strange. Had she fallen victim to her own exhaustion after all? Could she still rely on her senses? This horrible glare - had it happened or not?

Helen shook her head, meaning to cast off these doubts as they just added to her anxiety unnecessarily. She harrumphed and started moving as uninhibited as possible, not to feel like a stranger in her own house.

"Come, Helen," she told herself, "Be reasonable. You will not allow this stranger to throw a scare into you, will you?"

How comforting it was to hear her own resolute voice filling the room. Shoulders squared, she made some steps away from the sleeping chamber, making a point of entangling herself in a soliloquy.

"Whatever has just happened inside there, remember that you are still in charge of someone who is in an even less favorable state of mind than you." Helen hove a commiserating sigh. "Poor fellow", she murmured and couldn't avoid yawning. "Most likely he never even blinked at you and the whole matter is all just a result of your lack of sleep anyway. So, keep a clear head by all means."

Her drained gaze went down where it fell on the bowl she had carried along. It contained several stripes of bloody fabric floating in the sad rest of stale dirt water that she had wiped up from the floor – a rather worrisome sight, suggesting that the man's physical condition was none too promising neither. "See, there is no point in pleading weariness for an excuse. Not now. Just forget about the incident and stick to the plain and simple facts."

With a decided sweep of the hand, Helen poured out the bowl's contents into what once had been finely scented bathwater. Last night, she had thrown his clothing and a number of soiled sheets along with other blood soaked bandages into the tub to prevent those nasty stains from drying in. By now the water was a reddish slop.

In view of that great consumption of fabric in order to absorb all the blood he had lost during those past hours, he could as well have given birth to someone. The comparison seemed rather peculiar, however, the parallels were just striking. It had been the same desperate sounds he'd given like a mother-to-be would do when she was in labour. And there would have equally much blood been shed in an unlucky case of delivery. Obviously, he was struggling hard for life.

Beyond that, the continuous need to renew his dressings had Helen led to the unpleasant discovery that she'd just used the last clean bandage on him. Her stockpile of fresh linen was entirely depleted. The plain and simple facts were speaking a rather distinct language. Doing the laundry brooked no further delay.

"Alright then. Let's get to it: Firstly, do the things necessary, then proceed with the things possible and just see how far you'll get. That, my dear, and you know it well enough, is still the best, if not the only way to work a miracle." Goodness! She already sounded like Martha. However, a miracle was what would be needed. Soon.

Out of habit, Helen slipped into another set of George's clothes. It deemed her more practical with all the work that waited for her. Unfortunately though, there was no remarkable improvement on matters, no thinking of any more regular run of things. The only constancy were those frequent fits of fever that gravely cut into her work since they forced Helen repeatedly to drop everything in order to appease and comfort the raving man.

On these occasions, Helen had to learn, that it would pay to change the breeches for a dress whenever she was to look after the stranger. For entirely unwarranted reasons, he reacted a lot more aggressive whenever he happened to see her in men's clothing. Helen quickly came to terms that she would rather accept this fussy procedure than attracting his fury unnecessarily.

Whenever she got back to work, Helen tried to stand firm and get ahead with the washing as smoothly as possible. But it remained good intention at best. Any endeavour to proceed with method and steadiness got thoroughly thwarted over and over again. By the time his dressings needed to be changed again, several bandage material was cleaned, but hadn't yet dried. Helen had to put up with a moist one. It was still better than nothing.

However, in the face of all adversity, Helen attached great importance to document all changes in his condition, anxious to keep it at a minimum of gaps. Whenever she returned from his bedside, she sat down and took the time to make a detailed note of what had just happened, what remedies she'd tried on him along with any other attendant circumstances that struck her worth mentioning.

Apart from that, she hardly allowed herself a break. And yet, even the most ordinary chores took her incredibly much longer than usual, since she got interrupted in her almost every action. With bothersome persistency, the stranger kept demanding her attention – all day and night.

So, the next morning, a blear-eyed Helen stepped out of the front door. Clearly marked by yet another trying, sleepless night, she stood somewhat lost on the porch. It was bitingly cold. Strong winds had cleared away the heavy clouds of rain and the new day greeted her with frosty chill. Helen yawned and rubbed her arms, as she made ready to head for the stable. No matter how worn she felt, Helen didn't mind going outside to feed the livestock. In fact she looked kind of forward to it, regarding it as a time of relative relaxation even, as she simply wouldn't hear him for a while.

Crossing the yard, she noticed her own breath forming small clouds in the air. It was a phenomenon she had rarely observed here in the Carolinas. Unavoidably, her thoughts turned towards the stranger inside. Had it been lucky circumstances that he had found his way to her doorstep before the temperatures had fallen? If he had stayed outside, cold would surely have finished him off by now. Would it perhaps have been the better for him? The better for her?

She wouldn't know since she didn't know the slightest thing about him. As a matter of fact, she was quite in two minds about her involuntary guest, never too certain whether she should pity or rather fear him. All she could say for sure was that he hadn't dropped his basically hostile bearing towards her. She barely dared imagining what might happen on the off chance that his powers once fully returned. Would he appreciate her efforts? Or at the very least give her some credit for it? She did not expect him to bow to her with gratitude – no one ever did – but she hoped he would at least not harm her, should she not pass muster. After all he was a Green Dragoon, soldier of the Crown, and she, albeit in a broad sense, was a colonist.

Helen shook her head, meaning to cast off these dark prospects, and started to clear the dung out of the stable. More than once it had been the dull kind of work that had enabled her to bring her thoughts in order. So she started without lingering. But the desired effect was long in coming. Her thoughts kept returning again and again to the man in her house, harassing her with the nagging question what fateful deal she'd probably made.

Why hadn't Martha yet returned? Helen would have felt a lot better with her being around. Hopefully she was at good health. Helen balked at the thought of what if not and couldn't help recalling the day when Martha had left.

'_God willing, I'll be back in a couple of days',_ Martha had said. - But perhaps God wasn't willing to that?

'_Should He have other plans for me, though…'_ Helen shuddered. Recalling Martha's words back to mind, they sounded even more portentously than when they had been actually spoken. In fact, Helen had never taken this possibility into serious consideration. It hadn't been more than a random turn of phrase to her. Had Martha seen anything come, though? Should He in fact have other plans for her?

Helen wished so terribly for Martha to finally come home.

"It's all my fault if not", Helen whispered. What on earth had she thought she was doing when she had asked both, God and the elements for support? Was this the punishment for her audacity? Had she perhaps traded her friend for a stranger? For this stranger?

Helen felt awkward. What deity was demanding payment? Had her plea in fact been too forward? How could she ever have earnestly demanded to have the men come back? In theory, it hadn't sounded too bad, all right. But practically it was an eerie experience that appeared to be more than she could handle. If she had in fact, by craft or by prayer, made this man rise from the dead, then it was nothing she felt proud of. It was torture for him and it was horror for her. But now she could not make it undone.

_Mind the Threefold Law ye should - Three times bad an' three times good._

She should have known, whatever wish was spoken within the circle, was supposed to return to the performer in some way. How could she have ignored this? Did she really think, she'd speak a spell and everything was fine? Had she in fact sacrificed her dear friend for an obstreperous if not dangerous stranger?

When Helen was done clearing the stable, she found that it had taken her not long enough to dispel any of her fears.

Leaving the quietly chewing livestock with their ration of feed and a fresh layer of straw, Helen noticed that the winds had disagreeably freshened up. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she quietly thanked Martha for donning her breeches, this certainly was one of those occasions when she truly appreciated wearing men's clothes. Unlike the several layers of easily fluttering skirts, George's breeches defied the cold breeze most effectively, not even impeding her room to move. An amused smile rose to Helen's face as she couldn't help thinking that not a few women would give a damn about social convention, once they would find out about the convenience. At the same time, of course, Helen felt that this would certainly be a long, long way to go. Sure enough, for the time being Martha Kindly would be the only person not objecting to her odd appearance, regarded highly inappropriate by others.

Oh Martha, dear Martha! Worriedly, Helen searched the horizon, but there was still no sign of Martha's anxiously awaited return. Helen wondered, where her friend might be and how she was doing. The cold untoward weather along with the exertion of the walk were sheer poison to Martha's infirmities of late. Ensuring that her friend would find a welcomingly warm place by her return, which hopefully would be sooner than later, was the least she could do. Helen decided not to go back inside without having prepared a fair portion of firewood. Resisting the cutting wind, she fetched the axe and started chopping.


End file.
